The Slave Boy
by Virodeil
Summary: He is just a boy, a little nameless one at that. He is just a slave, a most unattractive one at that. But he has a big heart, an extraordinary one at that, and many other unseen weapons to boot. So the question is: Which will win over him, along the bitter path chosen for him by all too many? And when they all find out… *Borderline crossover with Inheritance Cycle.p
1. The Routine and the Non-Routine

_Author's Notes: Merry Christmas and happy winter holidays, everyone. As the school at which I am teaching is also on holiday break, I've got some time to do what I've been wanting to do all year. But since it isn't much, I'm not holding any hope on finishing many things that have been on hold. This particular muse, dark though it is, has been nipping at my heels for quite some time and refused to give me a reprieve even when I've begged it nicely. So I apologise for such a dark theme for a holiday mood, and would like to point out that it is dark only at the beginning. Only the readers can be ensured of the intensity of the story though, so I shan't lie and say one or the other. Hopefully you'll still like it! And since the story leans more heavily on the side of The Harry Potter Series, needing no explanation needed as to the other half of this crossover, namely The Inheritance Cycle, I've decided to put it in the Harry Potter category. I'm sorry for anybody who feel offended by this. And I apologise too if I've got some words, phrases, grammar or spelling wrong. Not a native speaker of English here, sadly! And now I present you…_

**The Slave Boy**

He is just a boy, a little nameless one at that. He is just a slave, a most unattractive one at that. But he has a big heart, an extraordinary one at that, and many other unseen weapons to boot. So the question is: Which will win over him, along the bitter path chosen for him by all too many? And when they all find out…

Chapter 1  
_The Routine and the Non-Routine_

Rating: K+ / PG  
Warnings: Child Neglect, Indirect Child Abuse, Mild Swearing  
Word Count: 3,699

23 April 1985  
_Privet Drive Number 4, Little Whinging, Surrey, England_

"Wake up!" the shrill, irritated voice of a woman insisted. The door to the cupboard under the stairs was banged just as demandingly meanwhile. And then, just a moment afterwards, footsteps could be heard leaving the vicinity without any more fussing or threatening shouts.

The house was never silent; there was always the sound of snoring, crieking, thumping, and many others related to the telly or the videogames; but it always felt silent after one of this episode, including now, and the small form inside the cupboard dared not make any noise as he prepared to begin his day. The small cheap lightbulb hanging from the cobwebbed ceiling of the cupboard was switched on, and the place of the tatty, faded, much-oversized pyjamas was exchanged with the equally tatty, faded, and much-oversized T-shirt and trousers; and then it was time for the makeshift belt – a length of rope – and the hole-ridden, yellowed, thin, much-oversized socks. The lightbulb was switched off then, and with a deep inhale of stale, dusty air, this tiny bundle of skin and bones was more or less ready for the chores ahead.

The door to the cupboard was pushed open from inside with a resigned air, and the small form, swimming in his ragged dayware, stepped out to the house proper. A mop of short black hair framed his thin, palid, sunken face, managing to block the top half of a jagged scar just above his right eye. His almond-shaped green eyes, meanwhile, were currently half-lidded to protect him from the sharp difference of lighting, although he still stumbled to the kitchen anyway, blinded by the cheery morning sunlight beaming into the frontroom. In fact, by the time he was standing on the door to the kitchen, thankfully having managed to avoid all obstacles along the way, he had not recovered his bearings yet. It had always been that way anyhow, and he knew that he would regained his equilibrium in just a few more moments.

But in those other days, _she_ had not been there.

"Stop squinting like that! You're looking more like a hooligan that way. Or were you thinking to threaten me, boy?"

He shook his head, then blinked, blinked, blinked, blinked again. The light stung his eyes badly and he saw stars even when his eyes were closed! But _she_ wanted him to open his eyes wide and he had no other choice but to comply, or today's chores would get twice as many from the original list.

"Cook the breakfast. I want toast, and the boys will need their bacon and eggs. Don't forget what I've been teaching you this last week, or you won't get any breakfast again."

He nodded, and began to feel his way towards where he knew the stove was while still being half blinded. He had met with many accidents this week because of that thing; but _she_ wanted him to learn to cook for the household, and so he had learnt: slowly, painstakingly, painfully – with still-healing burns on his skinny, miniscule hands as prove – and waylaid gleefully and as often as possible by the other boy in the house. But this morning the other occupants of the house were still absent, and he was most grateful for the reprieve. He worked as quickly as he could, quicker as his sight returned to normal: hurrying on and off the stepping stool that always helped his three-year-old-like self to reach the burners, as the bacon sizzled on a skillet on one burner and a scrambled egg on the other, and the toaster was crisping a few slices of bread. When the bacon and eggs were ready as well as the toast, he ran to the pantry to fetch the tub of butter and the jars of jam, then to the front door to fetch the refilled bottles of milk and also the day's stack of mail.

He got two burnt slices of toasted bread for all of that, and a quick gulp from the water-tap on the kitchen's sink.

He was handed a list of chores afterwards, a ritual the both of them had done since a year ago when she had caught him teaching himself to read, even as thumping and crieking sounds replaced the snoring upstairs. And then the other males in the house came thundering down and into the kitchen, possibly attracted by the smell of freshly-cooked food, and again he took a ritual cue from the moment. He swiftly slipped outside via the back-door with the list in one hand and a pair of ragged, much-oversized trainers in the other, to avoid _them_. Oh he knew, technically, that _she_ was his aunt, that _he_ was his uncle, and that the _other_ was his cousin, but all those were meaningless to him, when _she_ could just as well assign him thrice more chores, when _he_ could play a vicious kind of tag with him always as the prey, when the father _cheered_ his son on. It was always better to distance himself from them, to distance himself from the hurt of being in a family and having them not at all.

_They_ went away in their brand-new car to enrol _him_ to a kindergarten. The freak staid home; he always staid home, and got on with the chores, and waited till the family returned, bearing gifts for _him_ and flaunting _them_ and some takeaway food to him without giving him any.

Well, not until the toys were broken, or the food was stale, at any rate.

Done with the outside chores and filthy from his work, he took a bath with the garden hose on the backyard before returning inside the house: dripping wet, nude, and having hung his dirty laundry on some out-of-the-way corner of the backyard. After donning a new set of clothes, he began to grimly and tenaciously tackle the indoor chores, but stopped when he came to the middle, as he read: "Clean the master bedroom."

He had _never_ been allowed to have a peep into _that_ room or _his_, before now…

He raced upstairs, clutching the list of chores in one hand almost like a shield. He could show it to any of them if they asked and accused that he was lying, if this turned out to be some horrible joke!

The slip of thin notebook paper crumpled in his sweaty grip when he crieked open the door and peeked inside.

The large, ornate, stuffy room was clean, tidy and spotless; even the bed was already made, and the rug was uncluttered.

A joke, indeed.

He hastily stepped back from the door, alarmed, and looked around wildly, clutching the list of chores even tighter.

But nobody was there. No Dudley, no Uncle Vernon, no Aunt Petunia, and nobody else too.

Holding his breath, he scuttled into the bedroom and clicked the door shut behind him.

And then the withheld breath whooshed out, as nothing and nobody suddenly materialised to frighten him.

The Dursleys were not the joking type of people, even the horribly joking or the viciously joking; but still, he defended himself, everything could happen and everything could change. So, filled with relief and an odd sense of excitement, he began to explore the room, while still clutching the list of chores in one hand and checking the door every few steps. He could always escape from the window if somebody came in from there, and he would have ample forewarning if he constantly checked, or so he thought.

But the more he looked, the more bored he became. The flowery, stuffy bedroom was just as sterilely neat and tidy and gaudy as the other parts of the house, and there was nothing exciting at all about it. So, excusing himself by his age, he began to have a trampoline party with himself on the huge fluffy bed set on the centre of the room. He was just five years old after all! And he could always remake the bed afterwards.

Sadly, without a partner, the game was not as fun as he imagined it could be, so he stopped just after a few bounces. Panting and grinning goofily to himself, he remade the bed then, on a whim, checked under the bed for hidden treasures. Now he could pretend to be a treasure hunter! He had listened to a few films that the Dursleys had watched from inside his cupboard, and the action films had all seemed so exciting and rewarding. Perhaps he could be a treasure hunter when he was grown up? Now, what were the tips of treasure-hunting, again?

Well, treasures were always hidden, so of course he must find their hideout. Perhaps the treasure here could be… under the floorboard? It would not hurt to check, anyway, so he did: tapping gently at sections of the flooring with his knuckles and listening for the feedback sound attentively with one ear pressed on the panelling.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap—

He sucked in a breath, then sneezed, then bashed his head on the underside of the bed-frame when he attempted to scramble up into a sitting position, having forgotten that he was still under the bed. But all the discomfort was pale compared to his finding: One section of the flooring was rather loose and it seemed to be hollow underneath! With careful fingers, and also with the liberal help of fingernails and tenacity, he got the loose board away from the hidy-hole, then peered inside, stifling a bout of sneezing all the while. The ambient light in the bedroom was barely good enough for his poor eyesight; but he had trained himself to cope with less, and so did not give up.

His dogged, ginger inspection was rewarded with several small boxes lined neatly inside the hole, as if the whole business with the loose floorboard had not been accidental at all. But right now he refused to think about what might have been in _her_ mind during the construction and fill-up of this little secret compartment, so he continued his search in determined silence and, when he had discovered nothing aside from those small boxes, proceeded to unearth the little treasures out and into the dim light of the bedroom. How happy he was when he found out that the lids of those little boxes were each neatly labelled!

Lily, Lily, Lily, Lily… Harry.

His hand froze on the last box, which bore the name that the Dursleys instructed him to say whenever people asked for his name – a rare occurance on itself. Was it originally his name, instead of something that the Dursleys had made up on the spot to fool the neighbours? Then who was Lily? Was the bearer of that name perchance his mother? He had never gotten the names of his parents from the Dursleys anyway, save for the fact that they had been killed in a drunken car-crash.

He opted to forgo the "Lily" boxes in the end, uncomfortable with prying into things that were most likely not his. He would show at least to himself that he was miles better than Dudley! But the one box labelled "Harry" was fair game, was it not?

Returning the other boxes into the hidy-hole and sealing the loose floorboard back, he raced to the door and closed it hastily behind him. There were still half the number of chores to be finished, but first he had to see his treasure stowed safely in his cupboard. Nobody must _ever_ know of this or he might end up in the kiddy jail, as _they_ had always threatened him!

As the Dursleys were not home yet by lunch, he took it upon himself to liberate some leftover milk from the morning as well as two apples and a wedge of old cheese from the pantry for himself. More, and his pillaging would have been found out when _she_ checked the contents of the fridge and pantry in the evening; he could not afford that. This was already a kingly feast for him anyhow, and saw him doing the rest of his chores with renewed vigor. After all, his stomach was not protesting for once!

It was the first time ever that he welcomed the prospect of being locked early in his cupboard for the night without any dinner, too. The Dursleys arrived back home in time for supper, which the takeaway food had already provided for them, but this time _he_ somehow saw it fit to lock his 'dear' nephew early for the night, instead of taunting him with the feast-like spread of McDonald's on the kitchen table. The small box he had liberated from the master bedroom and the hearty lunch he had eaten ensured him an entertaining night, as the family of three chatted and laughed their evening away in the kitchen. The absence of any of the Dursleys freed him to use the lightbulb in his cupboard without repercussions too, which was to him a huge bonus point as he examined the contents of the mundane cardboard box now resting in his lap.

There were not many inside, but he had guessed about it indeed judging from the size of the box. In fact, he only found a necklace with a strange pendant and a letter folded small tucked underneath it in the aforementioned box. Fearing that the necklace would be torn away from him all too soon with dangerous questions to boot if he dared wear it, he regretfully set it aside and reached for the letter.

He loved the small, round, neat green-inked handwriting which filled the thick yellowish paper in tidy lines. He spent a while just touching the paper and drinking in the handwriting before he actually read the actual letter, slowly and painstakingly, with growing bewilderment.

_Harry,  
I'm sorry that I and your dad can't be with you. I left this with Tuney in case the worst happened. We love you very much and want the best for you, Little Green, but sometimes things are just that: a wish. I hope Tuney treates you well, but sadly she might not. She and I haven't been in good terms ever since I was accepted at Hogwarts and she wasn't.  
You might be wondering about Hogwarts now, eh? Well, if your aunt hasn't told you yet, which I'm almost sure she hasn't, then I've got to explain it to you. You are special, Little Green, and not just to your mum and dad. You have special powers, and this school will help you to use them when you are eleven. Weird things have been happening to you all the time, haven't they? Well, don't worry, they are examples of those powers I talked about. Even last month you were already running our poor cat ragged with that flying stunt of yours! Your dad was mightily proud of you, and I couldn't decide whether to be proud or very, very afraid in case that dratted thing Sirius bought you dropped you mid-flight.  
But I'm digressing, and there's not much of the parchment left for some whimsical reminiscing; you can always ask for our picture frames from your trust-vault in Gringotts. I'm writing this letter not only to let you know how much we love you or that you are a wizard, although those are certainly true. There is currently a war going on in this side of the world, and we are in the thick of it, but not because we are special, although your dad likes to joke about that too often. Half a year ago our former headmaster happened to hear a prophecy which stated that a child born on the end of the seventh month to parents who have defied the Dark Lord thrice will be marked by the Dark Lord as his equal, and then the child will be fated to either kill or be killed by the Dark Lord. To our horror, the prophecy could apply to either you or Neville Longbottom, your godbrother, as he was born on 30 July and you were born a day afterward. We and your godmother's family have been in hiding since then under a Fidelius ward. (You can research it in Hogwarts when you got there.) I don't know whom Alice picked as her Secret Keeper, and I'd better not know for her family's sake, but we've chosen Sirius – your godfather – as ours. Your dad and that mut are thinking of changing it to Peter though. You reading this letter means we are dead and either Sirius or Peter have been tortured for information or betrayed us, but I don't want you to dwell too much on the past, since there is much of the present and hopefully the future to live on.  
I'm giving you this information just so that you will enter the Wizarding World with open eyes and know what to expect. Live your life to the fullest, Little Green, and don't bother about the prophecy. The future is not ours to dictate, and it can shift by the slightest of difference. Your dad certainly expects you to take up responsibility for the House of Potter as soon as you turn eleven, but hopefully by then you are ready for it; and with or without the prophecy you will unfortunately have to shoulder the responsibility anyway, given that you are our eldest son and we haven't got much progress on trying for a second child. Find a hobby, find a job, find a good woman to marry when you are of age and wish for that kind of life, and find how you'd like to shape your own life and House Potter according to what you think is best. Take advice from others, but don't let yourself be steered by them. Respect people and you'll be respected in kind; love people and you'll have a good chance of being loved too; but life's sometimes unkind and unfair, and you've got to guard your heart against such chances too.  
I believe in you, my son, and so does your dad. Make us proud? But don't worry, we'll always love you regardless. Remember, Little Green: Live your life to the fullest. If you are reading this letter then neither your godmother nor your godfather are there to raise you properly; but I hold much hope that someday someone will be there just for you. A mother's prayers are said to be powerful, and I'm putting much stake on that. The necklace is there to protect you too. Wear it always, and don't ever let it go. I spelled it invisible so it's safe to wear it anytime; but still, don't let anybody see you looking at it, or they'll think you odd and investigate. The coat-of-arms embossed on the pendant is of House Potter, and it was your dad's before I made him give it to you. It's quite useful aside from protecting the wearer, you see. If you touch the plain back of the pendant to something while saying "In," it'll suck the thing in until you need the item once more. I don't think you can store live animals in there, but I haven't tried it and it's worth trying. When you want the item out, just say "Out" and make sure that your mind is picturing where the item is supposed to land. (Don't repeat my mistakes, dear. I don't think our poor cat has forgiven me yet for dumping that bowl of soup on her last week when I was last testing this.) Use the necklace wisely, Little Green, and don't use it to bully people. Pranks are fine, but I shan't tolerate bullying, especially from my own son. Open your eyes to everything, see everything from all angles, and open your heart with some caution thrown in.  
The parchment doesn't allow me to blather on, so here's a brief farewell from me, and a hope that we'll see each other again long, long, long down the years. Don't be too eager to see us! Remember: Live your life to the fullest first.  
Your loving, chatty, lovely (or so your dad says) mum,  
Lily Evans-Potter_

It hurt very, very, very much, as the suspicion of the writer's identity wormed ever deeper into his heart, and he could not stop the deluge of silent tears that poured from his squeezed-shut eyes after reading that damned letter. But he still could not believe –_would not_ believe – that he was that much-loved, apparently-wealthy, titled "Harry" addressed in it, not with how _they_ had been treating him so far and how _they_ had made everyone else treat him the same. Harry was a lucky boy; he was not. Harry was a wizard of House Potter, whatever and however it meant, while he was just the little unwanted freak in the household. But all the advice and admonishments in the letter seemed good and true, and he desperately hoped for a mother who would love him regardless, and so he put himself in the "Harry" shoes and claimed everything for himself. That decision saw him putting on the necklace too, as the charade went on, and he was determined to put it to good use starting from tomorrow. Pilfering food and water would be quite useful indeed for one like him, and he would not go to sleep with protesting belly ever again if he could help it.

The letter and its box were the very first items that he tested, and a wide goofy smile stretched his lips when they vanished with a small pop on his whispered command. He would not go hungry and thirsty again starting from tomorrow! With that thought in mind, he prepared himself for bed, namely by switching the light off and stretching out on the thin, smelly, old baby mattress that had been his bed for as far as he remembered, then clutched at the pendant even as his body relaxed into sleep in spite of the raucous blaring of the kitchen telly and the Dursleys.

Tomorrow was a new day, and hopefully a better day for a freak who named himself Harry of the House Potter.


	2. Unwanted

_Author's Notes: Shout-out to Autumngold and Allen Pitt for reviewing Chapter 1! I hadn't expected any review at all, truth be told, since the topic of this story is quite sensitive, but these two surprised me. Thank you all! And thank you very much also to you who put this story in your alert list. Hopefully I can match your expectations; but I apologise in advance if I don't. And now, without further ado…_

**The Slave Boy**

He is just a boy, a little nameless one at that. He is just a slave, a most unattractive one at that. But he has a big heart, an extraordinary one at that, and many other unseen weapons to boot. So the question is: Which will win over him, along the bitter path chosen for him by all too many? And when they all find out…

Chapter 2  
_Unwanted_

Rating: T / PG-13  
Warnings: Indirect Child Abuse, Mild Swearing, Slavery  
Word Count: 4,305

Day 14 of Spring, Year 50  
_Helgrind, Dras Leona; Courtyard by the Cathedral, Dras Leona_

At first, nothing seemed amiss. It was pitch black and the air felt just as stale and chilly as usual, given that the house's heater did not reach the frontroom's cupboard under the stairs. But a waft of danker, chillier air _definitely_ did not belong in a small, windowless, tightly-locked cupboard. And with that kind of greeting, "Harry" jolted from a dream of a flying motorcycle, a green light and a high-pitched cackle and sat up with a gasp. In that way, he also found out that the baby matt had vanished from underneath him overnight, replaced by a bed of hard, lumpy rocks.

The spider-invested, slant-ceiling cupboard was no longer there. All round him was open air, as much as he could tell by waving his arms in frantic, windmilling motion.

And _nothing_ lay round him on the ground but rocks, rocks, and more rocks. He dared not go far in his inspection of the flooring, afraid to lose his way and even more afraid to make a noise, but he could determine that much. His meagre belongings were not there then, save for all that he was wearing including the necklace. But he did not bother so much about them. He was still clothed after all, and the letter's writer had claimed that the necklace would protect the wearer.

No, he did not bother about clothes, and neither did he worry much of where he had ended up, not now at any rate. What got him in panic at present was the fact that he had not stored any food inside the necklace, let alone water. How would he survive without food and water? He could exist for round a week without both. the Dursleys had proved it last winter, when they had punished him and forgotten to let him out four days after the punishment period had ended. But he had been locked inside the cupboard all the time then, not walking trying to reach open air. How long would he last now?

He shuddered, and not entirely because of the damp, cold atmosphere permeating the air round him. What had happened? Had he been transported here because he was not the real owner of the necklace? Should he leave the necklace here then? But he felt loathed to do so, for some strange reason, and he had been harshly trained to think that no magic existed anyhow, so what had happened might not be the result of the necklace.

He shuddered again. Whatever had happened, he felt quite lonely and afraid right now, something that just sitting waiting would make worse. He knew that from long days of punishment locked inside his cupboard, and did not wish to repeat the experience here. So, carefully and apprehensively, he got up and padded in his socked feet over the sharp pebbles and uneven stone floor in the direction of the chilly draft he had felt, hoping for the presence of a wall to guide him somewhere, wherever it was.

He got luckier than that, or so he thought, as his blind hands connected with a vertical stone surface that was just as sharp and uneven as the floor was. It was damp and occasionally slimy, but he did not mind it terribly, especially when he began to feel the floor sloping up beneath him. It gave him the notion that he might be in a cave, too, and he could tell himself that he was in a preplanned adventure!

It was a gentle, straight upslope at first, but then the still-pitch-black path began to bend here and there, and he even encountered several side paths, even as it climbed sharply upwards. He was partly thankful of the exercise since it heated up his body, but now his belly wrung itself in hunger, his throat was parched with thirst, his leg muscles were ready to give up on him, and he felt that he was still a far, far away from reaching any kind of opening to the world outside. He did not know much about caves, but he thought that one ought not be this large, this twisty, or this far into the mountain. He could die before he got out!

But who would miss him anyway? His parents were dead, apparently by their own fault, and the Dursleys would throw a party if they knew he was not counted among the living anymore.

But he had promised himself to take "Harry" as his identity, had he not? And "Harry" got many responsibilities, and the boy's mum wanted him to live on and live his life to the fullest – whatever it meant. He had to try his best to live through this then, if he still wanted to be called "Harry."

So he walked on, and on, and on, and on…

A greater, fresher, chillier waft of air hit him from in front. He had no energy left to grin, but his heart soared indeed on this encouragement. The opening to this bloody long cave might be in sight soon. The holes on his socks had been torn even wider and more numerous by now, so he had compensated for it by stuffing the much-unused length of his pyjama bottom into the socks to better protect his feet, but soon he might be able to find other means to protect his feet better. He might be able to find some food and water too. Working in someone's house in exchange for a pair of used shoes as well as lodging and some meal, perhaps? He doubted that he was currently any near Little Whinging, let alone the house, so people might be more inclined to let him work for them, with their view of him untainted by the lies the Dursleys had been spreading throughout the neighbourhood.

The prospect fuelled him with some spare energy he had not thought he possessed. It saw him walking doggedly onward, ignoring how shaky and painful his limbs were and how light-headed his head was feeling. His breaths had gone ragged since a long time ago, but thankfully they had not become loud, mainly because of his own efforts to measure himself. And he supposed because of wearing just socks instead of shoes, his steps were noiseless to his ears too. He reasoned that it was why he had gone undetected so far; that, or there was nothing alive indeed in this huge cave; and he was grateful for small gifts like them. It only left him worrying for the way out, really.

One step, two steps, three, four, five…

His breath choked in his throat, and he rushed forward, stumbling and swaying in utter exhaustion. The opening, at last! It was still metres ahead, and it seemed like either very early in the morning or very early in the evening given the faint light, but it was still the way out he had been searching for hours, and he could not wait to get there.

He could not help crumbling onto the floor and weeping however, as he stopped dead on the mouth of the cave and looked _down_ on a stretch of land _far_ below. The opening was set on a sheer _cliff_! How would he get down there? He no longer had any energy to walk, let alone climb down something for that distance! He might just as well throw himself down the cliff and be done with himself. But that would make all the painstaking hours trying to reach this place worthless indeed.

So he laid himself down on the right side of the opening with his back to the wall, wiped his eyes with hands that were numb and filthy from feeling along the cold slimy cavern walls for so long, and looked dolefully down on the strange landscape stretched before and below him. He had never seen nor glimpsed anything like it, at any rate: What looked like a large cramped, dirty village with small houses packed together lay probably one or two miles from the base of the cliff, surrounded by lush woods that contrasted with it very much, but on the middle of the little town stood a high building that looked like a church, which looked even more out-of-place compared to the green clumps. Uncared-for dirt roads wended through the woods in and out of the village's borders, and the dim light revealed only uneven clumps in the distance which signified even more patches of trees. It looked as if he was currently stranded in the countryside. But then he had never heard big, dirty villages like this described as "the countryside" on the telly or by the Dursleys.

He fell asleep thinking on this, and spent an inordinate amount of time in his dreamscape getting introduced by Uncle Vernon to their new house inside the strange crowded, ramshackle village, then being ordered to somehow get the house bigger and free of filths. He replied that he did not know how except by magic, which saw Aunt Petunia shrieking like every time she had heard of that word in the past. And then she dangled him by the neck, and cackled in a high-pitched voice as a green light surrounded him and a burning sensation stamped itself on his scar.

It jolted him to reality: a reality where he was indeed dangled by his neck somewhere above where he had laid himself down, by an arm which did not feel like human, which was attached to an arm and a body shrouded in a cloak but which nonetheless did not feel like human at all.

He choked. He would have screamed, but it was already hard to breathe anyhow. But he could not stay still when his captor let out a series of hissing and clicking sounds. Those sounds were _definitely_ not human in origin! So he flailed round and struggled as much as his exhausted state allowed, gripped by primal fear. He would not be eaten by some overgrown insectile alien like in those films that Dudley liked very much!

It was nearly too much for him when, from further inside the cave, another series of similar sounds answered his captor. It was indeed too much though, when out of the darkness lumbered a _huge_ smelly beast which looked like a weird bald bird with four clawed insectile legs and a lizard's tail minus the scales. He was in Alien's Planet! How had he gotten here? He must get free! He must run away _now_!

And with that, accompanied by the feeling of being sucked through a very small rubber tube, he was gone, only to rematerialise on the corner of the gap between houses near the church-like building which he had spied from on top of the cliff, which turned out to be a large courtyard. Unfortunately for him however, he had rematerialised near a pack of people, who were naturally startled just as he was with himself. It could not beat the prospect of being an alien's snack though!

But why were the people so gloomy and in chains? They barely stirred – forget shouting – on his shocking stunt! They were barely clothed too. The men were even garbed only in loincloths! Their hands and feet were restricted by cuffed chains each, leading to a big single chain that was tied to a huge pillar. They looked like lifestock in this way! It was… wrong. What was going on? What had happened with him? What would happen with this people? And with himself, for that matter?

He closed his mouth, unaware that he had been gaping, then padded gingerly closer to the clump of pitiful-looking men, women and children. He had to see if he could do something for them. Or at least he could ask where he was and what was going on. Still, even more unfortunately, his strength gave in mid-way, and he crumbled bonelessly onto the paved ground, with his mind flickering between consciousness and unconsciousness.

As his ears caught the sounds of people approaching, he tried to get up for an entirely different reason. Now he _must not_ let himself seen by anybody else. As cruel as the thought sounded even to himself, he knew that these sad people would not tell on him, and they did not seem to mean harm to him too; but he could not say anything like it for the approaching people, and—

It was too late.

"Oi Gynn! Look what I found!" a man's voice shouted gleefully just feet away from his sprawled, prone body. And just a moment after, he was surrounded by what felt like at least a dozen men, all times and times larger and stronger than he was. He doubted that he could repeat the inexplicable feat that had landed him here in the first place, but he tried mightily to do so. This was easily comparable to being eaten by aliens! He was sure that these cackling and leering men had anything good for him.

And sadly, he was proven right.

A large, strong hand hauled him upright by the scruff of his pyjama top, choking him in the process. Then the man crouched before him, ignoring his pals who were discussing things such as "a suitable price for the runt," "no attachment to any family" and "selling it now or later," and he was forced to look into a pair of calculating brown eyes.

"You have any family round here, eh?" the man asked. Oh how great the temptation was to lie! But the man's choke-hold on him was firm, and he doubted the man would not detect any lie coming from him when he was half conscious like this, so he had better not try.

"No," he croaked out in a whisper.

The man grinned widely, showing uneven, half-blackened teeth. "Good," he purred, and the light in his eyes now was that of glee and greed. "We'll get you sold shortly. Barring that, we'll just fatten you up a little then sell you. People'll clamour for such a young thing like you. They just need encouragement."

Fighting was futile, as "Harry" found mid-way of the man's little speech. He was just too exhausted and confused to even land a strike on the man, let alone escape. Squealing weakly and pleading to be released, he was nonetheless dragged by the scruff of his pyjama top to the clump of chained people, and stripped down to his underware, as the same man said, "They'll see that we've hidden nothing from them. If they don't like what they see… well, we'll just need to put some meat in you first, eh?"

And then, he was similarly cuffed and chained by his wrists and ankles to the huge pillar, before the man went away whistling with a spring on his steps.

What had happened? What was going on? Why had he been talked about as if he were a lamb for the slaughter? What would happen after this? Was he going to be "sold" soon? Or was it "sold" in the truest of meaning, in which money would be exchanged over _him_ and he would be _owned_ by a total stranger?

A chilly breeze ghosted over their corner of the courtyard. He shuddered, felt goosebumps rise on his nearly-nude skin, felt hysteria bubbling up his throat, felt his eyes heat up and his sight swim. Was he just a _thing_ now? But had he not always been so, anyway, even though the Dursleys had not deigned to acknowledged him in such a vulgar way? He was below even his drunket parents then? Or were they the same: just animals?

_She_ had ever towed Dudley and him to something called an "estate auxion" once, on the garage of a big house in Greater Whinging. What he was experiencing now was eerily similar to it, with the man who had stripped and chained him hollering out the descriptions of the 'wares' and their respective starting prices. The courtyard had been slowly but surely filled with people garbed in rich-looking flowy clothes alongside the progress of the rising sun, and now the man and his ilc were standing on a makeshift platform that separated and hid the chained people from all others, speaking to that wealthy crowd.

And one by one, two or three of the men would come down to the huge pillar, and one of the chained people would be released from it, just to be towed up to the platform as if a puppy in a dogshow. None of the 'puppies' had ever come back to the pillar, so far, and that made the number of his enforced companions dwindle just as slowly but surely as the sun rising over the big, cramped, filthy village. Somehow, he wanted this ordeal to both stretch forever and end swiftly. He felt like a cornered animal here, indeed, but one who could neither lash out nor scream for fear of retribution. Tears fell down his cheeks silently, but he could do nothing more, and neither could he stop the show of weakness. He had been caged before in his cupboard; but it had been something familiar done in a familiar setting, and he had known almost all that he ought to expect from such. But here nothing was certain from him, and he was about to be _sold_ to a total stranger, in an alien land that might also be inhabited by real Aliens, and he was almost naked, and he was cold, and hungry, and thirsty, and terribly exhausted, and deathly afraid, and very lonely…

His chains rattled and tugged, and he could feel himself be carried by his chains up to the platform, before the tip of a stick nudged him to stand by himself – swaying, still swaying, with silent tears in his eyes and on his cheeks.

"He may not look like much now, good gentlemen, but don't be fooled. He may be all skin and bones, but he is healthy. And of course, my good sirs, you all know the best technic found so far: Get them young. He'll obey your every whim in no time! He's one meek thing too, at least when he's tired, so you've got no need to worry about punishments and escapes: it's already solved!"

The man roared with laughter as what might be his own joke – though a macabre joke it was, to "Harry." The crowd before them chuckled in kind, and murmurs flowed like wind through branches.

"This lil'l un doesn't cost much too, good sirs. Just a hundred Crowns and he'll be your own! Expensive, you might say, but not unreasonable – oh no. How often have you or will you see one of this age sold? Rarely! So dear sirs, get him now for a hundred Crowns before a lucky somebody else stumbles on him!"

"Fifty!" somebody shouted from among the crowds, and the murmurs turned into hissed whispers. But nobody else spoke up, and "Harry" did not know should he feel glad or horrified by the fact that even nobody would like to _buy_ him.

"Fifty?" the man roared in what might be construed as jovial astonishment. "Oh not fifty please, my dear sir. This rare specimen is worth more than that! A hundred and no less, I say, or you'll have to wait till the next auxion. And just an itty bit of forewarning: He may have been sold by then and you'll have lost the chance to own a little, perfectly-trainable midget for yourself." He chuckled, and this time more people chuckled with him.

But nobody shouted a price again, not even one lower than before.

"No? Ah, what a pity! I suppose till next time then?" the man, apparently realising the same thing, wheedled. "He's the last, I say. No other, just till next time of course." He chuckled again, then continued, "Just a wee bit of coins, deer sirs, and he'll be yours. And as I said before, I've got no other for sale, so you need not wait for a seemingly-strong one. I tell you again – and you must have known it yourself, good gentlemen: an obedient slave is better than a strong one, save if you're giving one in homage to the Holy Peaks of course."

Appreciative murmurs. Was he going to be sold at last then? Was he going to be measured by the worth of a few coins then? Was he going to be handed in chains and barely clothed to a new _owner_ like a puppy then?

The tears would not stop. He could not stop it. He would not stop it, somehow.

He felt cold, so very cold, cold and lonely and afraid, so very afraid, so very angry, so very tired.

He trembled, and did not stop trembling.

The crowd of fancy-looking, odd-looking people before him swam, pitched to one side and then to the other.

"thirty!" another voice shouted.

The tears flowed faster, stronger. The world pressed in on him: cold, black, alone, without mercy, all pain.

He was unwanted, unwanted, unwanted, even by these people, even as a slave, forever, forever slave.

Trainable, he said, they said. No, he was not, he would show them, he wanted to show them. But no chance, no chance, nobody wanted him. He wanted to belong, to be with somebody, to belong, even as a slave, not utterly forsaken, not utterly lonely, but nobody wanted him. He would not run away, no, no more, trainable, yes, yes, trainable. He wanted to show them, wanted to please them, somebody, anybody, just so that he could escape this place, escape all those stares, all those shouted prices and descriptions. He was a living, breathing human being! But was he still one now? Could he be still one afterwards? After… after… after _that_? Ought he just end himself somehow? Now? Later? No more "Harry." He could no longer justify himself be "Harry." He could just go then? No mother, no responsibilities, no future, no necklace. Just Freak, trying to run away from a human auxion, wanting to sell the necklace and perhaps live in the woods. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Still free then, want to be free, to belong, to be free, still belong, free…

"One hundred, and no more. Give him to me."

Powerful, so very powerful, dignified even, like the Queen and the Queen Mother giving speeches on the telly. So far away, far away… He missed his cupboard, the sound of the telly, the sounds of the Dursleys, even the house, the neighbourhood…

And like a cardboard box collapsing under Dudley's weight, the man standing near him on the platform caved into the demand.

"One hundred Crowns, yes Sir, oh yes. He's yours!"

Was he noting an underlying nervousness in that simpering chuckle?

But the tears still flowed. He could not stop it. He would not stop it, somehow. He was sold, at last. One hundred Crowns. How much was that in Poundsterling? How much was he worth? What would happen to him now? Whom did he belong to after this? Was he getting another cupboard? Or perhaps a kennel, like a dog? Was he getting a meal every other day? Or perhaps every day?

The crowd jostled away, running away, looking unnerved, sounding unnerved. They had been so confident, cocky even. What made them afraid? The man that now had him? Should he fear the man then? But that would not be good! He wanted to belong, not to be _owned_ especially by way of fear! But did he really want to belong? Could he not get back to the house? Ought he not try? At least the Dursleys had never thought to _sell_ him!

A thump, a jingling sound, so near.

"Give him to me. I wish to be gone shortly, but _not_ before you do."

A flurry of activities behind him, nervous activities, frightened activities. His chains jingled like the coins, and he was dragged forward, onward.

He blinked, blinked, blinked, blinked again. But the tears could not stop, would not stop. His sight cleared slightly though, and swimming into view was the hard, aristocratic face of a man partially visible from under the hood of a cloak. He was dragged towards that ominous man, so he struggled, but he was simply picked up again by his chains, and then he was let go again, crumpled on the ground _very_ near to the edge of the cloak, to the side of a pair of well-polished black leather boots.

A muttered word. The chain-cuffs clinked open without any handling. His hair stood on end. A wizard too, like "Harry" and his mum and dad?

"Stand up."

So he did, with much effort. The command did not need to be shouted; it already sounded _quite_ imperative even in a murmur.

"Follow me."

So he did, again, with even more effort. Too tired, too bleary, too shaky, but he could not disobey, dared not, partly did not wish to. He was just sick of all the new things, of all the movements, of all the horror, without food and water, without shelter, without some bit of routine or normalcy. He wanted it to end, quick, in whatever way.

Shocked murmurs, panicked whispers, reverent mumbles. "My lord," they said to the ground to the sides of the man; never in front, never, nobody dared.

My lord, indeed, he thought. Perhaps _he_ could be his lord too? Would be nicer than this, he bet… He was used to worrying, used to fear, used to hunger, used to thirst, used to confinement, unlike these people. Perhaps he would be wanted then? Wanted till he could find a way back to the house, back to his more mundane way of life?

But at least, now he was not unwanted.


	3. Choices

_Author's Notes: First of all, thank you very, very much to Allen Pitt who has reviewed Chapter 2, and thank you also to all who have put this story (and me too in a couple occasions, surprisingly) on their story and favourite alerts. I highly appreciate it! And secondly, for those who are not familiar with The Inheritance Cycle, don't worry. I did tell you that you don't need to have read it beforehand, didn't I? In this way, you simply need to discover things alongside our main protagonist, that's all. And don't worry about the Wizarding World not being touched also while our poor boy is floundering away in another land; it will, sometimes, in subtle ways. (But I don't mean it the next chapter, mind you.) I am greatly surprised, encouraged and happy that this story, despite the sensitive topic that saturates it, has already gotten so much warm welcome from all of you, and I dearly hope that you will still be here with me till the story ends. I won't be able to post updates for a few days after this though, since I and my family are going to have a holiday trip and we'll depart tonight, but I assure you the next chapter will be there when we arrive back in Jakarta. And now, to save you from my further rambling…_

**The Slave Boy**

He is just a boy, a little nameless one at that. He is just a slave, a most unattractive one at that. But he has a big heart, an extraordinary one at that, and many other unseen weapons to boot. So the question is: Which will win over him, along the bitter path chosen for him by all too many? And when they all find out…

Chapter 3  
_Choices_

Rating: T / PG-13  
Warnings: Child Maltreatment, Indirect Child Neglect and Abuse, Slavery  
Word Count: 4,624

Day 14 of Spring, Year 50  
_Dras Leona, Leona District; Leona Lake, Leona District_

They halted on the mouth of what looked like the mixture of a shopping street and a market place, before entering it. Freak could not see any display case or rack or chest of shelves perched in front of the stores though, only display tables, unlike those he had ever seen in the shopping centre of Little Whinging. But still, judging from the jingling of coins at the Lord's side as he reached for a bulging leather pouch, Freak thought that this might be an ordinary sight in this village. After all, he had not spied any electric light anywhere within or on the outskirts of the dirty, cramped little town when he had first beheld it from atop the cliff. He might have just been transported to a time before electricity had been found! Was it not interesting?

Scuttling on bare feet on the dirty, uneven, sharp-pebble-ridden paths when his body was screaming for both sustenance and rest was not easy, not at all, but like his previous experience in Little Whinging, Freak was more interested in the new scenery than the loud protests of his own self. The interest turned into curiosity and doubled in intensity as he realised that nobody dared advertise their wares when they spotted the Lord and him entering the street, let alone when they drew level with the first kiosks. Were they afraid of the Lord? Ought he be afraid of the Lord too, then, seeing that his fate was now literally and figuratively in the man's hands? The Lord did not allow him reprieve, yes, and he had not even once looked back to see if Freak was following him, and he had not spoken a word at all ever since they had left that courtyard, but he was not otherwise being cruel to Freak, no he was not. The Dursleys would have invented at least a dozen ways to belittle or hurt him by the time they reached this street, he would bet. So did it mean that he ought not search too diligently for a way back to his own place, to his own cupboard? But he still hated the idea of being _owned_! But the Lord seemed more pleasant than Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley combined…

"Go there, and choose three pairs of clothing in your size."

Freak actually stopped walking on that unexpected command. All aspects of it were shocking to him: He had not expected to be spoken to for some time yet, he had not expected to be ordered so, and he was wondering if those _three_ pairs of clothes _in his size_ were actually for him. It would not do to dawdle or to raise his hopes up though, he had learnt much of those lessons while living with the Dursleys. He would simply obey, hope for the best, and expect the worst. So, darting a glance at the Lord, he approached the store pointed at by the Lord's left hand, and dithered before it under the keen gaze of the silent shopkeeper.

What should he do now? He had never been loosed in any store before this! He had only been once towed to the shopping centre too, when Missus Figg had been too busy with her cats to babysit him. He had been left outside every shop there anyway, so he could not even imitate what Aunt Petunia had done.

But the Lord had ordered him to _only_ choose three pairs of clothing in his size, had he not? Freak could do that, without actually touching the wares with his grubby hands too, since this store actually had some kind of display rack with small-sized clothes hanging from its bars by the tables of folded adult clothes. The mute stare of the shopkeeper and all the stares he was accumulating otherwise from round him were distracting and making him jittery; but he really did not want to disappoint the Lord for many reasons, so he forged on. It did not help that there was no clothing displayed there that matched his size though. And why did they look so odd? Where were the jeans and colourful T-shirts and comfy breeches and trousers? Had they not been invented yet? But that was ridiculous! … Or was it? He was currently trapped in a place anybody round Little Whinging would have considered ridiculous after all. Plus, those human-buying people had worn dresses like a priest would wear during the Sunday Mass, and the man who had stripped him had been wearing a pair of tight trousers below knee-length T-shirt, so who was he to wonder? He would just have to choose, and the Lord would take care of the rest… hopefully.

The dark-green laced shirt looked nice. The green colour almost matched his eyes, and there were motifs of leafy vines stitched in what might be silver thread round the hem and cuffs. The plain black long T-shirt appealed to his more practical sense though, and it was less girly too, but he found it hard to choose between the two anyhow. And what would be the third? The other shirts, long T-shirts and knitted jumpers looked either overly decorated, much too big for him, too weird-looking, too expensive-looking (But that baby-blue long silken T-shirt looked so nice and comfy!), or – worse – too girly.

Hey, but the Lord had not specified whether these clothes would be given to a girl or a boy, had he? Should he confirm it first?

He looked towards the street, searching for the Lord with his eyes. But the large, dark-red-cloaked man was nowhere to be seen, and his heart plummeted to his toes as fear clenched his belly. Where was the Lord? Was he going to be abandoned _again_, dumped like stinking garbage, like with the Dursleys and his arrival in this queer place? What should he do now? Ought he just go, try to fend for himself, or try to find the Lord?

His gaze swept the street and the cooking-tools store opposite once more, and he slumped in relief as he spied the billowing blood-red cloak from the corner of his eye, coming towards the clothing store. He was safe, not abandoned too. He could – must – return to his perusal of the clothes now.

The clothes had not changed from before though, and those he had not selected still held no appeal to him. But the Lord had said three! Ought he just select one of those, just to complete the order? But it felt wrong… But the Lord had not said clothes that _he_ liked, right? So any clothe would suffice?

He peeked among the hanging garments again, gingerly, careful not to touch any in his inspection. There must be something… That last reasoning had sounded weak even to his own ears somehow, so he was not going to use it, and that meant he still lacked one more piece of garment to choose—

And the Lord was standing behind him now, he knew that, sensed the large, dignified man looming behind him, although he had heard no footsteps approaching. His time was running out.

He looked up. "Sir?" he tentatively called, whispering, dreading to attract the Lord's attention to him but seeing no other way to convey the message that he was done with the order.

He could not actually see the Lord's eyes, but he could definitely sense that he had managed to gain the Lord's attention. Shifting from foot to foot in nervousness and discomfort, he looked down to his grubby feet and mumbled, "I'm done, Sir." He wanted to add "What next?" but it sounded rude to himself, and he could not afford being rude to the scary man who held his life.

"Which are they?" The placid murmur actually calmed him down, to his surprise, and even gave him a little bit of confidence. Mutely, he pointed to the silver-threaded forest-green laced shirt and the plain black long T-shirt. But then his newfound self-esteem crumbled again, and he dithered long in silence, before the Lord's sharpened gaze made him point out the baby-blue silken long T-shirt that he had thought nice but too expensive. And to his astonishment and amazement, the Lord snagged _all_ three pieces of garment from the display rack without any shred of hesitation, then dumped them on the display table behind which the shopkeeper had been lurking.

"How much are they?" the Lord asked, still in placid, lowered tone. But the shopkeeper looked scared and nervous, opposite to what Freak had felt when addressed by the same tone. What was wrong with these people? Why were they so scared of the Lord? Would they be even more scared of Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia then?

Absently, as the conversation between the two adult men washed over him, he examined the neighbouring table, delighting in perusing the various children paraphernalia with his eyes. They all looked more appealing to him than the more fancy, expensive or outlandish tops he had perused just now, mainly because they looked rather ordinary and common to him. Gloves, socks, scarves, belts, vests, even a few caps and pieces of handkerchieves were neatly laid out on the clean wooden surface, made up of various kinds of fabrick and done in various shades of green, grey, brown, red, yellow and white. He even found a pair of silken socks – or were they some kind of soft shoes? – that neatly matched the colour and texture of the expensive baby-blue silken long T-shirt he had been forced to choose. And there was also the girly pair of socks which looked somehow cute to him with little flowers sewn onto the fabric…

A large black-gloved hand suddenly materialised before him, barring his view. Freak jumped back with a squeak, startled and afraid. He had lost interest in everything round him and now he did not know what was expected of him! What was the Lord going to do to him in punishment? But still, he had to apologise first, like Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had always demanded him whenever he had done something wrong, or when they had perceived him doing something wrong.

"Am sorry, Sir. I wasn't hearing anything."

The large gloved hand motioned towards the table in a graceful move startling for one so huge and strong-seeming. "Choose three pairs of socks," was the Lord's only response to his apology, and Freak could not be more relieved. This order was not so hard to comply with too, given that he had been perusing those wares on his own just now. The expensive-looking baby-blue socks were definitely in, since the Lord did not seem to bother with prices, and that was already one pair down. Should he match the socks to the tops he had chosen though? Dared he ask the Lord about that?

Since the answer was no, not now at any rate, he decided to go on with instincts and try to match the tops that he had picked up, now selecting a pair of green cotton socks and another of grey wool. And to his relief, the Lord did just as he had, picking up the pairs he pointed at without a word and dumping them on top of the shirt pile. And then, without consulting him – to Freak's bigger relief – he also dumped three pairs of black laced trousers made up of cotton, wool, and that silken material on top of the previous selections, followed by a grey knitted scarf, a green woollen cap and a pair of black cotton gloves. The shopkeeper swiped them all into a canvas sachel afterwards, and the former place of the clothe-pile was filled with ten thick, round golden coins.

The small, bulging sachel exchanged hands, then disappeared in a brown, plain leather pack that the Lord was carrying. Afterwards, without neither a word nor a look back at the shopkeeper, the Lord motioned Freak to follow, which he did just as silently, although by now he was ready to beg for some rest, if not food or water or a chance to relieve himself.

He ended up choosing a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo for the Lord as well, in a shop not far away from the clothing store. The bar of soap was placed in a wooden case and the goup that was the shampoo was stored in a similarly-wooden flask, but he chose to ignore the weird containers and instead picked up the scents as the Lord instructed. By now, he would rather smell food though… The various smells, especially the heady flowery ones, made him even more dizzy and weak. He would not be able to stand much longer, let alone walk, if this kept up. But he dared not beg the Lord for some respite, since the Lord had been rather kind to him in his own measurement so far: not shouting at him, not scorning him, and not setting a difficult job for him too. He ought to be grateful, not whinging for rest.

So, after the Lord had paid for the soap and shampoo, he trailed dutifully behind without a peep. It proved too much a task to bear when they happened to walk on the area of the street hit by sunlight though. The sudden jolt of heat and light shocked his system, and Freak found himself kissing the rough, dirty pavement of the path not far away from the Lord's boots. His world exploded in colours even as it spiralled out of control, and he would have thrown up the contents of his belly if he had eaten anything beforehand. As it was, he was still racked with dry heaves, and his limbs twitched uselessly, unable to move themselves, let alone support his weight.

The boots left his sight, padding silently on the same pavement, still without a word from their owner. If he could cry, he would, but he doubted it would make a change for the better for himself. It had never brought him anything good from the Dursleys at any rate.

But then the boots returned again, and he found himself subtly lifted by thin air into something resembling a wooden box with wooden bars. Was it a cage? Was he going to be treated as a dog after all? But the box was large enough for him to stretch out and sit up, and it was surprisingly clean, and he could still peep out from the bars if he wanted, even as fresh air and light would find their way in, so it was much better than his cupboard. He did not have to walk too, and he found the rocking motion of the box as it was being carried soothing, like settling in an odd, comfy swing-seat. It lulled him into a dreamless sleep, in fact, and somehow he relished this experience. The Lord was kind and thoughtful enough to carry him, even though indirectly!

Tiny sprays of water woke him up gently an indeterminate time later, in which he found that the box had stopped moving but he was still in it. The lid had been levered up though, and from there the Lord peered in, a bulging leather pouch with a wooden neck and mouth clutched in one hand, tipping slightly towards the inside of the box. Freak could not help it: He giggled, tickled by the scene. The droplets must have come from that odd leather pouch; the Lord had pranked him!

As his giggles subsided, his attention returned to the Lord, and a sense of astonishment drenched him. If he had not paid much notice on all the visible bits of the Lord's features, he would have thought that the person currently looming over the box was another man entirely. Where was that hooded cloak? The Lord looked less menacing without it, and even slightly weaker, smaller. He still exuded silent dignity and power though, in Freak's opinion, and did not lack in looks either, and Freak favoured this new side of the Lord to the one displayed while being constantly eyed by people. He looked more… human, more tangible, less frightening, although his eyes were of different colours and shapes – the right one smaller and ice-blue, while the left one bigger and pitch-black. Freak liked the hair too: thick, long, shiny, slightly wavy, and – most importantly – just as black as his own was. He wondered if his own hair could ever be that way; or perhaps the Lord would allow him to touch it some time?

Their eyes met, and Freak drew back slightly from the intensity ironically radiated by the Lord's calm gaze. But since he could detect no malice in that stare, he chose to return it full-force.

He could not have prepared for the question that was suddenly murmured to him though.

"Where are your family, lad?"

How to answer the Lord? Why would he be interested? Ought the answer be just the same as what Freak had given that human-selling man on the village's courtyard?

He chose the last option.

"No family, Sir."

The black, thin eyebrows rose to the Lord's hairline. "Explain," came the order.

"Dunno how and why I got here, Sir. Am a freak, so I must've got something freaky to get in that cave."

He shivered. The huge, never-ending cave had been rather creepy, but the pair of insectile Aliens who had ambushed him near the opening of the cave had been sheer horror, and he would rather not visit that memory ever again, or – much, much worse – return to _that_ place physically.

But unfortunately for him, the Lord was not satisfied with his answer. "What cave? Where was it?" There was an odd note in the Lord's low voice, but Freak was more occupied by trying not to bolt away in order to avoid the question.

"Close to the village, Sir," he answered anyway, forced by the Lord's intent gaze. "There're Aliens there! One's bout to choke me to death, me think. Can see the village from top of the cliff. Never thought I got down so fast though. But is good right? I dun get eaten an now am here an I like it an is all good, like Uncle Vernon say."

He was so, so, so afraid that the Lord would reject him after knowing of his freakiness. The discomfiture, coupled with the Lord's unfaltering stare, got him rambling almost to himself. His words stuttered to a stop only when the Lord raised his free hand, his right hand, in the universal sign for asking for attention. And then Freak was too focused on the hand to be unnerved.

The glove there was off! Come to think of it again, the left hand that bore the strange wooden-necked leather pouch had been gloveless too. And the Lord missed most of his index finger! What had happened? And there was a strange silvery oval scar on that smooth-looking, pale palm also; what was it?

But the hand was lowered, and Freak could barely stifle a sigh of disappointment. The Lord directly continued on the interrogation too, unfortunately.

"Who is 'Uncle Vernon'? And what did those 'Aliens' look like?"

"He's my uncle," Freak said simply. On the Lord's pointed look, he sighed, coughed through his parched throat, swallowed some saliva to moisten the passage a little, then continued. "Aunt P'tuney's my mum's sister. Her husband's Uncle Ver'n, and Dudley's my cousin. They not here though; am alone." Then, while curling himself up into a tight ball and focusing his eyes on the grassy earth visible through the wooden bars, he described the two Aliens that he had encountered, as his hand snaked towards his own neck and clutched the pendant that Harry's mum had given him. He was not Harry, he knew that, but the pendant was said to contain some form of protection, although he knew not what it was, and regardless of anything he could do with some right now. Talking about the Dursleys to a total stranger was a first experience to him, and he found his mouth gone bitter and not because of his acute thirst either; and then he had to talk about those scary, unnatural creatures too, to the same total stranger, just after talking about the family that he did not belong to despite sharing the same blood. He wished he could hate the Lord, he really did. He wished the Lord would act like _him_ so that he could hate this man safely and freely like he did _that_ man, but on the other hand he dearly hoped that the Lord would be miles better than _him_, and the battle between both urges in his mind made him physically sick.

The tiny water sprays hit him again, and Freak's rambling words stuttered to a nearly-instantaneous, surprised stop, and he automatically looked back up at the Lord.

The next question was just as hard for him to endure, however, to his bitter resignation.

"What is your name, child?"

_Nobody_ had ever called him other than "boy," "freak," or "dear" – the last spoken by Missus Figg _only_. He was ordered to answer to the name "Harry" round the neighbourhood, yes, but that name had never been part of him given how rarely and phonily it was used. Was the taint going to follow him even here then? Oh he knew that "Freak" meant something very, very bad and that the Dursleys ought not have used it, but he had no other name that really stuck with him, and he so hated _that_ name, but he must answer the Lord now because that stare was getting pointed again, and he had no other choice—

"Freak, Sir."

Clipped, angry, sad, disappointed – and it was back to being a living ball again. His muscles protested heavily on this treatment, but he felt more secure, more protected, so the burning pain and the spasms were ignored. He was used to things like this anyhow. Nothing was new anywhere he was. He was still the freaky Freak.

"Did your parents give you that name?"

Softer, but still placid, distant, unfeeling. Freak began to hate that tone, although he had taken comfort from it before. And he hated these hard, painful questions, but he must answer each, and perhaps the Lord would be kind to him later and give him an itty bit of water from that queer pouch?

"They dead. Aunt P'tuney say they got drunk and crashed. Never know them. Got no name than that."

Another strange question made him look up again, letting his own tired, jaded gaze clash with the Lord's, which forced him to note that there was definitely something odd shining in those bi-coloured eyes now.

"Would you rather return to your living family, or stay here?"

What kind of question was that? Freak did not even know how to answer it, or what he was supposed to say. He could not figure it out in his mind, forget putting it into words. On one hand, the Dursleys had never been kind to him while the Lord had yet to be cruel to him aside from these endless questions, since the Lord would not know if he was hungry and thirsty or not if he kept up his silence on the matter; but on the other hand, this land was totally alien to him, and being sold like some cattle or candy really did not sit well with him, and he would like to distance himself from the person who now _owned_ him, but at the same time he could not help but dearly hope that perhaps here, where everything and everyone were foreign to him, he could start his life anew without much of the old prejudices and bad stamps dogging his way. He was not willing to make himself more vulnerable by trusting his fate in the Lord's hands, but at the same time he was reluctant to return to the house and his cupboard with the knowledge that he could have escaped all the hurts associated with them if only he had been just a little bit braver.

The Lord left him, perhaps to let him think on the decision – the answer – in peace, but it did not seem to matter much to him. He was still very much undecided and anxious.

Confusion was added into the unpleasant mix when the Lord returned with the brown leather pack and ordered him to stick out his hands over the box's edge, while the Lord himself was poised with that queer pouch somewhere near. It compounded and stretched into astonishment and surprise when the Lord next asked him to wash his hands under the cold water trickling out of the wooden mouth of the pouch. Nobody else had ever helped him wash his hands like this! _She_ might have ever, but never more, and it was all that mattered, and now _he_ did, while no reason compelled him to be nice to Freak.

All thoughts fled Freak's mind entirely, nevertheless, when the Lord then presented him with the pouch itself, instructing him to just drink a little from it and slowly at that. Water, at last! It was _very_ hard to comply with the order, but Freak managed it with much effort, before the next thing shocked him into stuporous inaction.

"Eat it little by little. It is yours and going nowhere."

The Lord had retrieved something wrapped in oil-paper from the pack, which turned out to be what smelled like freshly-baked bread, and he had just proffered a smallish section that he had torn from the loaf to _him_. A good honest meal, and derived from the same source that must have been spared for the Lord himself! The small, damp, now-clean hands were once more stretched out over the box's rim only when the Lord remarked in a rather clipped, odd tone, "Take it, lad. It is not poisoned." But who was thinking about poison? A meal, at last! He did not care if it was poisoned or not, or if it was moldy or not, knowing that the same piece – just much larger – was going to be consumed by the Lord, one who did not share his taint. It was… awesome! And unbelieveable too, even as he cramped as much of his portion of the bread as possible into his mouth.

His knuckles got tapped rather hard by the Lord's flicking fingers for that, alongside the quiet admonishment of "Slowly, child," but Freak did not mind. He did retract much of the bread from his mouth and slow his chewing a bit though, even as his widened eyes never left the larger portion of the bread still untouched perched on the Lord's left palm. Simply unbelieveable!

And when the Lord proffered _yet another_ small chunk of the bred to _him_ after he was done with the first…

Freak had reached his decision, now.

"Am staying here, Sir."

He shivered with emotion and something else that he did not know. It was as if ice were trailing down his spine, even while his chest and belly were filled with warmth. The weird feeling only got more intense and acute when the Lord then said softly, solemnly, intently, "Then you need a name. From now on, you shall be known as Murghan. Bear the name well, child. It means 'Sea Fortress' in my language."

Now he had a _name_! And it was derived from the Lord's _own_ language! _Only_ because he had chosen to stay here. Oh no, no, he was not regretting anything now, definitely. He had chosen well, he thought. Now he was not _owned_; he _belonged_.


	4. In Subtle Ways

_Author's Notes: My apologies for the long wait, people. Hopefully we'll be able to finish this ride before school starts again for me. But the good news is, the school won't start till 2 days beyond my expectations! I've got roughly a week to finish this, or at least to lay the groundwork for the story so it'll be easier to round up. And one thing I forgot to warn you: This story is a CHARACTER STUDY, so there'll be much introspection and fairly little action. I'm sorry if this disappoints you and perhaps some of you will opt out of reading it, but that's the fact and I won't buck out of it. Plus, I won't move over from scenes done in this new land till the groundwork is finished, and this all will be in the boy's point of view if I can help it. Again, my apologies for not warning you all right from the start. And here another bunch of profuse apologies too to those who have put this story on their story and favourite alerts, and especially to those who have reviewed – History and jedielfsorcerer – for putting this acknowledgement last. Trust me that you are NEITHER the least NOR the last in my mind! And with all said and done…_

**The Slave Boy**

He is just a boy, a little nameless one at that. He is just a slave, a most unattractive one at that. But he has a big heart, an extraordinary one at that, and many other unseen weapons to boot. So the question is: Which will win over him, along the bitter path chosen for him by all too many? And when they all find out…

Chapter 4  
_In Subtle Ways_

Rating: K+ / PG  
Warnings: Background of Child Neglect and Abuse, Indirect Mention of Slavery  
Word Count: 3,895

Day 14 of Spring, Year 50  
_Leona Lake, Leona District_

The Lord seemed as implacable as ever, after all that he had done, but the newly-dubbed Murghan could not hope to imitate him, not in the foreseeable future at any rate. Even the biting chill of the late-afternoon spring breeze on his nearly-naked skin did not prevent him from grinning like a loon. He was out of the box now, and the Lord had ordered him to both clean the box and himself in the nearby lake, but he did not mind it. He was used to cold water, and the Dursleys had done worse to him than ordering him to bathe in a lake in spring anyway. This did not beat the record of being left out during a snowstorm in mid-winter with empty belly and no shelter whatsoever. His belly was not empty this time, and the wind was not so chilly as it had been during the blizzard, and the water must be way warmer than those whipping snowdrops too.

Dragging the box to the edge of the still water was somewhat a chore, since it was surprisingly rather heavy. The uneven, rocky terrain only hindered him further, but he was persistent, and with an unpleasant scraping noise of wood and stone managed to tow the box inch by inch to where rocks met water. He could not feel the Lord's eyes on him, but imagined so anyhow, and that boosted his determination. He would show the Lord that he was worth the name bestowed upon him, and he would not disappoint the Lord if he could help it. It really was a nice bonus that the exercion battled the spring chill for him on its own.

However, when he was finished cleaning the box, a problem presented itself to him: He did not know how deep the lake was! When taking water for cleaning the box with his cupped hands, he had not needed to get deeper than a few inches into it. When he had been frustrated with the small amounts he could get with just his own hands that seemed to only dirty the box even more, and thus dragged the box closer before splashing water towards it with his arms, he had not gone more than a foot into the lake, and it had indeed told him that the body of water before him was _deeper_ than a foot! He had never gone swimming with the Dursleys and therefore never learnt to swim, and the Dursleys had never gone to any sport-like activities either save for golf, but Dudley had tried to drown him in the bath-tub once when he had been much younger and Aunt Petunia had been forced to take care of him, and he could not forget the experience. But the Lord wanted him to clean himself…

It was frustrating. He did love to play in the water, as he had found out himself when trying to put water into the box to help clean it from filths unseen, but it was absolutely no help to him when it came to put _himself_ in the water. And unlike the box, he was acutely aware that he did need the bath. Just _how_ would he achieve that when the water itself was his enemy?

And then the problem was solved, instantly and frighteningly to him, as a gust of strong wind knocked him from his place tittering on the edge of the lake, straight into the fathomless water. His shriek echoed in the open air and his own ears, half a moment before his body connected with the water with a big splash. But, the thing that shocked him just as much as the dunking had been, the box was suddenly round him, as if he were a rubble ball scooped up in a basket! The water only reached his neck, and it staid that way since there was barely a ripple once the lake had resettled past both violent intrusions. He could deal with it, as long as there was a solid bottom under his feet.

And what a shock it was, to blatantly see the Lord's hands holding the edges of the box! He looked up with awe at his saviour and opened his mouth, wanting to thank the Lord for everything and more. But the Lord seemed just as unruffled as usual, as if saving stupid little freaks from drowning were an everyday occurance to him, and while rising his eyebrows just said calmly, "I said clean yourself, lad, not gawk at me. Be quick about it too, or I shall send you straight to the bottom of the lake. And do not forget to get rid of that piece of rag you use as loincloth. It is never to be seen again."

Well, the threat seemed quite real, and holding the box that way must be tiring too, so Freak – no, no, _Murghan_ – must not waste the goodwill offered to him. He therefore inhaled a breath and held it, then dunked his own head into the water and furiously scrubbed his hair and face with his hands, before resurfacing for lack of air. Getting rid of his underware on the prospect of having none to change into was rather horrifying, since he would be truly naked then; but the Lord must have already thought of it and its solution beforehand, right? So he awkwardly lowered his underware and stepped out of it, trying not to get his nose underwater meanwhile, and let the also-oversized-and-overused piece of cloth float up and away from him, farther into the lake. He attacked his own body and limbs afterwards with a furious handscrubbing, before proclaiming rather cheerfully, "Am done, Sir." The not-so-cold water had helped cheer him up, much, and he had no time to think on why it was warmer than when he had made waves to wet the box recently.

The Lord pulled the box out of the water then, to Murghan's bemusement, but it all cleared when, after the box had been perched securely back on solid land, he was handed the container of soap and ordered to lather himself with it. He had never thought nor guessed that any of the items he had chosen would be used by _himself_! Did it mean that the clothes would be for him also, then?

No no no no, he must _not_ think that way, or he would be heading for a huge disappointment. He must always expect the worst and hold no hope, lest it would be used against him. He just had to enjoy himself whenever he could, as per usual, and he would be fine. Thus, remembering the Lord's order for him to be quick with his bath, and reminding himself that the threat was still as real as a few minutes ago despite him currently being perched on firm land, he hastily lathered himself with the soap, using the remaining water on his body to liquefy the surface of the thick bar. Still, he was thankful that, with his belly sated and his throat lubricated, plus his body having gained some respite, the not-so-strong babyish masculine scent of the soap no longer made him quizzy. He could only hope that he would be just as lucky with the shampoo.

Done with lathering his body and after returning the now-sleek bar of soap to its container perched diagonally on one corner of the box, he retrieved the open flask of shampoo standing precariously on the opposite corner, put a small amount of the mud-coloured goup – though thankfully fragrant enough to be considered some kind of shampoo – on top of his head, then returned the flask to its corner. The whole activity felt odd to him since he had rarely had a chance to use either cleaning agents on himself while living with the Dursleys, getting lucky only when a bar of soap had been reduced to a strip ungainly to be held in one hand or when shampoo could no longer be squeezed out of its bottle, but the Lord's order and threat made the motions swift and mechanical, disallowing any other thought or feeling to enter his mind in the process. He supposed he ought be grateful for that, since he would have dawdled and revelled in the smell and feeling of the soap and shampoo if not, instead of cleaning himself up.

He wondered why no breeze seemed to touch his wet unprotected skin after he had been pulled out of the water, briefly, but his attention was drawn away from the baffled notion when, as he was done with lathering his no-longer-so-rebellious hair, the Lord handed him yet another small wooden container – but oval-shaped this time – and instructed him to scrub the floor and bars of the box with it. Cleaning something with a soap: He was much more accustomed to this than cleaning himself. It brightened his mood, and saw him scrubbing vigorously and meticulously at the aforementioned areas with a small smile touching the edges of his lips. It helped also that the pine-needle scent of the semi-solid cleaning agent reminded him of the faint scent of the Lord's cloak, which he had been accustomed to while trailing after the Lord in that village.

The dunking this time was gentler, and as the result Murghan relaxed in the water quicker than before. He even managed to steal some time splashing round with his hands, as he rubbed the soap and shampoo off of himself and the submerged box. It was surprisingly fun! Well, the presence of solid bottom underneath his feet lent most influence on his current opinion, but he was not going to complain about anything right now, and he was going to briefly 'forget' the Lord's threat on him dawdling on his bath too.

It was rather unfortunate, really, when the box – and therefore him also – was abruptly lifted out of the water, without so much as a brief warning, after some time had passed. He could only be grateful that the Lord had not caught him red-handed playing with the wavelets he had created himself! He dared not imagine what would have happened then.

Certainly not being handed a fluffy light-green towel to dry himself, yes, he was sure of it, as he was currently experiencing. The towel was so soft and downy! And it bore the pine-needle scent that he was beginning to like too, which teased a startled smile from him. Having to dry the inside of the box with the rag once more handed to him did not let down his spirit any bit; he was just glad that he was not made to dry himself with the coarse rag, having the chance to feel a real towel for once in his life.

And then, to his absolute astonishment, he was handed the silken clothes that he had chosen before! He could not help but gawk uncomprehendingly at the garments draped oh-so-casually over the surprisingly-dry-so-quickly rim of the box. He had thought that the Lord had wanted him to choose those garments for either his son or some fortunate child in his care – never a _freak_.

The only thing that at last made him move was the Lord's clipped admonishment of "You are wasting my time, lad." Thinking and fearing that the previous threat was still intact, he put on the black trousers and baby-blue long T-shirt, then the baby-blue socks and the black gloves and the grey scarf and the green woolly cap as they were handed silently and mechanically by the Lord. This was feeling more and more and more and more like falling into a dreamland! He had caught glimpses and heard tales of the story of Alice in the Wonderland from the other children in the neighbourhood, yet this felt times and times better than that. Alice had not gotten new, comfy clothes but he did! Even if the clothes were going to be taken away from him later, he still got to own a set for himself for the moment, a _totally new_ set at that. He could not – would not – complain, for certain. And what a wonderful – if slightly alien – feeling was it, to feel the soft friction of the silken garment against his body and the warmth maintained by the socks, gloves and cap! He felt like a totally-new person, a totally new being, and he loved it very much.

Murghan the neat, diligent, respectful, smart worker had a nice ring to it. Oh yes, he was going to be the best; he was going to be the best for the Lord.

It was nearly too much though, when he was ordered to step out of the door on the side of the box, and was greeted with the sight of a pair of comfy-looking black cloth boots lined on the grass on his path as if _just_ for him. "For me?" he asked the Lord in a shaky tone, while waving a trembling hand at the boots without even trying to meet the Lord's eyes.

"Do you think my feet can fit in those?"

The still-soft-spoken, still-mild-toned response threw him off, and he could not prevent the bout of giggling that escaped his lips for a moment. Those boots were roughly his size while the Lord was a _huge_ man!

With the problem solved in a roundabout way, he stuttered out a no and an apology between breathless giggles and quickly stepped into the boots. He even tested the new, fitting footware round the box till the Lord ordered him to take a seat on a sheet of brown pelt thrown on the grass. The feeling of wearing fitting things for once, especially at once and since those things were as luxurious both on sight and feeling as he could think of, made him feel queer and unreal, but he could not deny that he was ecstatic over the prospect of looking forward for more of this treatment, and he could not deny the fact that he felt quite warm and comfy in this new, unexpected attire either. It was what prompted him to thank the Lord as soon as his silk-covered bottom hit the pelt, uninstructed and in his sincerest manner yet.

His profuse gratitude got no verbal response, not even a grunt, but he did not mind. The Lord was sitting cross-legged on another length of pelt thrown on the grass opposite him as though they were equals, and it felt both marvellous and astonishing, and Murghan somehow loved it – or the idea of equality, he did not know – and he thought that it might be the Lord's way of acknowledging his thanks.

He got more convinced of it a moment later. The Lord got out a wooden bowl and spoon from inside the brown leather pack then something from a pouch belted to his left, then somehow made water appear inside the bowl before sprinkling the something from the pouch into it and stirring it with the wooden spoon. And then, with the water in the bowl somehow steaming and spreading a delicious aroma, he handed it to _him_! But what for? He had eaten before. Sure, the aroma of the strange broth before him made his mouth water and got his belly rumbling again, but he had already eaten those two pieces of bread before the Lord got him a bath!

He told the Lord just that, tentatively, but what he got was only: "Better your speech, lad. I shall not suffer an unlearnt child under my roof."

And, 'smartly' and promptly, Murghan's reply was only: "Wha?"

The Lord let out a sigh, got out a wooden plate from the pack, put it on the grass, put the bowl on top of it, then fished out what looked like a child-sized napkin also from the pack, before he deigned to elaborate, with an irritated tinge in his for-once-not-so-placid tone of voice. "Improve your… the way you are speaking. Make your words heard clearly, and use the right structure. It ought to have been 'I have eaten just now,' not 'I eat jus' now.'" And meanwhile, blasély and crisply, he fixed the napkin round Murghan's front collar, before once more handing him the still-steaming bowl. All the while, the chastised child, gaping with a gobsmacked expression on his face, sat rigidly in a mimicry of the Lord's posture, shocked and disbelieving of the Lord's treatment on him. This was _really_, really, really, really _way_ beyond what he had gotten while living with the Dursleys!

Only the Lord's sharp glance at the bowl in his hands got him to close his mouth and look down at the heavy thing supported by his trembling glove-clad appendages. But really, he needed to get at least one of the questions bubbling dangerously to overflowing level out from his system, or else the dam would break and _all_ the questions would come out. "You not going to eat too, Sir?" He made sure that his words were pronounced clearly, and that his grammar was good, but it was hard given that he had rarely spoken before he had landed in this strange place. The amount of conversation between him and the Lord would have been equal to his 'conversation' with _them_ for a _week_! Reading something in a book and practising what he had read were two different matters, he was finding out to his shame and chagrin.

The Lord's thin lips pressed together until it was hard to detect if they existed at all. Annoyance and what might be discomfort flickered in a flash past his countenance, disturbing his calm mask a little, but he seemed back to his unruffled self when he spoke. "Eat now. I do not wish to be here until sundown." But he did get out another bowl and spoon from the pack and poured half of the broth from Murghan's own bowl into it, lightening the load in Murghan's hands considerably and thus enabling him to spoon the liquid with one hand while supporting the bowl against his napkin-protected chest with the other.

Perfect.

It got even more perfect, unbelieveably, when, after finishing the broth with nonexistent spilling and taking a few sips from the water-pouch, he was ordered to chew a couple of leaves that tasted leafy and minty and freshened his mouth wonderfully, before he was ushered back to the box. The Lord's red cloak was inside it, layering the floor of the box nicely and leaving much to act as a blanket if wished, with a pillow made up of rolled leather on top of it! Was it really for _him_? But he could not deny it when, with a nudge on his bum, he was sent sprawling into the box and right on top of the cloak. Another nudge saw his legs being retracted almost fully into the box and the cozy nest the folded cloak and rolled-up leather had created, and he got to retract his feet close to his body after _the Lord_ had tugged the brand-new boots off of him anyhow. And for the first time in his current memory, he felt how it felt to be bundled for bed, as he was nudged here and there till his head rested comfortably on the rolled-up leather, before the folded-up cloak was wrapped cosily-but-securely round him and the woollen cap and scarf were refixed for more comfort and warmth.

The top lid and side door of the box were locked shut then, but Murghan never felt better and more secure in his life as far as he remembered, as the wet-pine-like scent from the cloak surrounded him as thickly as its warmth, and the box rocked gently back and forth alongside the gentle crunching of a pair of large boots nearby, and the nature all round was preparing for the evening-to-come. He was clean, he was smelling of soap and shampoo even, he was warm and even cozy, and he was cared for and well-fed too for once in his life, and it all because he had been spirited away from the Dursleys. He could ignore the scary Aliens, the human-sellers, even the fact that he had been _sold_ to the Lord just this morning, if only he could experience something like this as often as it might be.

And perhaps, he ought to thank the necklace – Harry's necklace – for that? After all, it might have gotten him here, wherever this was. Perhaps it was what Harry's mum had meant when she had said that the necklace would protect Harry. He felt like a usurper and dapelganger now; but really, he did not know where Harry was, so he could not have returned the necklace and letter to the other boy, could he? Plus, he could have made use almost anything and everything to escape the Dursleys, come to think of it again, now that he had tasted how it possibly should have been had he been raised even marginally decent. He was finding it intoxicating and addicting, having somebody take care of him, even if the said someone was also his _owner_.

Back, forth, back, forth, back, forth… His thumb mirrored the lulling motions of the rocking box, gently tracing the carving on the oval plate of the pendant back and forth, back and forth, back and forth… He did not need to see the carving anymore; he had memorized the image captured on the embossed metal, right from the very first time that he had beheld it that long time ago – or so it felt – under the weak illumination of the cheap lightbulb in the cupboard under the stairs: a sword and what might be a staff crossed on the middle and superimposed by an oval shield on the crossing point, done on an earthy light-brown background, with an open book placed beneath a closed one on the left quarter, a blooming white rose on the top quarter, an open hand with a blazing flame on its palm on the right, and another hand clutching – or perhaps shaping – a lump of dirt on the bottom. The image had been bewildering to him, and still was, but the sight and memory of it somehow comforted him; and perhaps later he could ask the Lord of what those symbols meant? The pendant had been done quite beautifully and with astonishing detail anyhow, a good model for drawing, and he would have to see if he could practise his drawing with it, maybe on a bit of mud or sand?

But now he was terribly sleepy, and he would rather enjoy the present, so he settled with simply holding the pendant, and drifted into sleep even as he felt an invisible cocoon encasing him just as thoroughly and warmly as the cloak, spreading out from the pendant in his hand. He did not know all the subtle things that the Lord had done for him and to him, had realised just a few like the insistence for him to eat and take a bath, but he trusted the Lord even on that small evidence of care, and he was not going to fret on where the Lord was bringing him to. There had never been use for fretting in his life and he did not know how to begin doing so, all the same.


	5. Home

_Author's Notes: First of all, I'm sorry for the delay, and here I'm regretfully informing you that the delay might become longer and longer when the school restarts on 8 January. Secondly, I wished to inform you that we are entering THIS side of the story's bulk now which I already said in the last chapter is a character study as a whole. Please bear with me? Or rather, please bear with the story? That said, thank you very much for those who still stick with this story, especially those who reviewed it – history and Allen Pitt – and put it on story and favourit alert. Thank you all! And now…_

**The Slave Boy**

He is just a boy, a little nameless one at that. He is just a slave, a most unattractive one at that. But he has a big heart, an extraordinary one at that, and many other unseen weapons to boot. So the question is: Which will win over him, along the bitter path chosen for him by all too many? And when they all find out…

Chapter 5  
_Home_

Rating: K+ / PG  
Warnings: Indirect Child Abuse and Neglect, Indirect Slavery  
Word Count: 3,626

Day 14 of Spring, Year 50  
_Bloodstone Refuge, Foothills of the Spine, Leona District_

The first thing that woke Murghan up was the peculiar, vastly-different sensation of atmosphere, which made him feel as though he was alone in a big room. The second thing that he was aware of was the throbbing ache on his lower belly caused by overfull bladder, which made him grimace and barely stifle a groan. And those two points came with a slew of problems as back-up, namely that they made him afraid and wretched, clostrophobic and desperate, and – oddly and shockingly – longing for the silent presence of the Lord, despite the fact that he would not dare tell the Lord that he desperately need to relieve himself. He wished that at least one of the ways out of the box were open, or better yet, that some kind of chamber pot for his use were provided inside it like it had been when he had lived in the cupboard under the stairs. He doubted he could clamp down on his bladder much longer, and he did not want to disappoint – or more probably, anger and disgust – the Lord by wetting himself, and he did not want to ruin the new pair of pyjamas by wetting himself too, and—

The nearly-nonexistent light filtering through the wooden bars winked out. Murghan's breath hitched, and the pain in his lower belly became unbearable. His heart pounded frantically against his ribcage as a thought flitted past: Was he back in the cave and one of the insectile Aliens came to eat him now?

But the opening of the box's top lid was gentle, not fertive, and the hand that reached in to peel away the cocoon was just as gentle – and more importantly, _human_. In fact, the familiar scent of wet pine needles wafted into his nostrils as soon as the hand descended, melting away his apprehension and giving him a definite clue of who the owner of the hand was. Sadly, his bladder was troubling him too much for him to greet the Lord, and he did not know if the Lord would rather that he be silent or not, and—

If he could spare a gasp, he would. The Lord lifted him up by his neck and the back of his knees as though he were a baby! His parents _might_ have done something like it when he had been a baby, but he could not live with the memory that he did not have, and—

"Why did you not tell me that you needed to relieve yourself?"

The Lord's voice was just as soft, just as calm, but the underlying tone was a touch stern, and that brought Murghan's apprehension back up although for a different matter than beforehand.

"Re-leave, Sir?" he squeaked, both because of the pain in his lower belly and the uneasiness caused by the Lord's tone. But unfortunately for him, the Lord just let out a long breath – detectable only because Murghan was placed rather close to his chest – and strode silently for a short distance across the unfamiliar space, then lowered him upright before what looked like the combination of a well, a chamber pot, and a proper toilet-seat. But what was he supposed to do with it? "Sir?" he asked tentatively.

What sounded like a soft, low growl came from behind and _far_ above him. And then, without any ado or warning, he felt the tall, huge presence behind him shrink rapidly as the Lord took a crouching position, and he was helped to _pee_. The Lord could have explained that – it was so _mortifying_! How would he have known that "relieve yourself" meant "pee" instead of "go away" or something like that? He had not meant to be difficult! And it was wrong for the Lord to keep taking care of him, although he appreciated it, and he actually liked it even though he would only ever dare to admit it to himself, and—

He gaped. Done with ushering him through the very, very embarrassing business with the strange, probably-old-fashioned loo, the Lord had nudged him away from the queer contraption to what he recognised as the open door out of the Dudley-room-sized, dimly-lit chamber walled by light-green ceramic tiles. And standing on the door looking out, he finally saw for himself where he had woken up: The main chamber was _huge_, probably as large as the house on Privet Drive Number Four or even slightly larger, well-lit albeit dimly even to the smallest and farthest nooks and corners by soft sunlike sourceless illumination that only hurt his eyes a bit, and it appeared to be a _humongous_ bedroom. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would be green and frantic with envy if they ever saw this place! Murghan loved it on first sight, despite the nearly-nonexistent decoration and how overly-tidy things somewhat looked. Although, on hindsight, he supposed that the Dursleys would not appreciate any room that did not contain electronic entertainment sets, ornate and expensive-looking fournitures, and an obvious showcase of wealth. The huge, oddly-lit, green-themed chamber exuded a quiet sense of dignity, wealth, comfort and warmth that Murghan rather appreciated when compared to the master bedroom at the house. And he had to admit it even just to himself: He liked it because it reminded him of the Lord, even down to the huge comfy-looking bed with all the fluffy pillows and warm-looking layers of blanket set not too far away from where he was standing.

He did not note much detail past his first impression on the general view of what was most likely the Lord's bedroom. Aside from the bed with its prevailing green colouring and a few closed windows with their heavy black-green curtains, he took notice of series of closet doors set into the far wall, a big packed-but-tidy writing desk parked not to far away from those closet doors, a huge thick fluffy oval apple-green rug dotted with grey-green fluffy cushions spread on the floor between the writing desk and the bed, the bedside tables, his own box parked by the wall not to far away from the bed, and an entire wall – which hosted what looked like the 'front door' too – covered with floor-to-ceiling overfull bookshelves. To be fair, he was more interested on the Lord himself, who was now standing a short distance before him, examining him contemplatively just as he did. For one, he had just realised that the Lord was garbed similarly to him minus the woollen cap and scarf, including the silken soft shoes! The Lord's attire was all coloured ice-blue and he looked far more cozy with himself in all those silken garments than Murghan was feeling, but the new look was nonetheless shocking, and it conveyed to Murghan that the Lord was truly _just_ human underneath all the dignity, power and wealth.

He loved the Lord's new look.

He did not even _like_ the Lord's out-of-the-blue question though.

"How old are you, Murghan?"

If _she_ had not been forced to give him an identity for just-in-case, and if he had not deducted the rest of the truth from his own quiet observation throughout the years, he would not have known how old he was, just as he had never quite figured out if "Harry" was truly his name. But she had told him to say that he was five years old, and he did deduce that Dudley was only a few months older than he was, so he must be really five years old, but it was still quite a bitter medicine to swallow for him that she had refused to tell him outright how old he was, just as she had never deigned to tell him his _own_ name, and—

He blinked, blinked, blinked, and blinked again, then stared first at himself, then at the desktop he was perched somewhat haphazardly on, then at the Lord sitting in an armchair behind the desk gazing back at him unerringly. What was wrong with him? Why was he so easily distracted after he had woken up just now? What was going on? Why was he sitting on the desk? Would the Lord not be angry with him for that? But who else had dumped him on the desk other than the Lord, seeing that he had not even caught a glimpse of any other living being in the room with them?

He looked back warily at the Lord, noting with surprise the approval conveyed in those weird bi-coloured, bi-shaped eyes.

"How old are you?" the Lord prompted again, but this time Murghan was ready.

"Five, Sir. T'least 'tis what Aun' Tuney telled me."

Irritation sparked in eyes of black and blue, yet it was quickly swallowed by uncertainty and some sense of dismay. Murghan did not like the Lord's new expression, although he could appreciate its openness. If the Lord did not even know what to do with him, then what was _he_ himself supposed to do?

He fidgeted on the desk, still feeling uncomfortable and afraid that the Lord would snap at him for sitting on it despite all facts otherwise. He did not wish to be regarded as a toddler too by being treated so, in spite of the fact that he somehow enjoyed being seated on _the Lord's_ huge, sturdy desk in front of _the Lord_ himself and just an _adult's arm's reach_ away from the Lord. He felt like a young son talking in an intimate setting with his indulgent father. Oh he _knew_ that he must _not_ indulge such fancies, but he could not help it this time, and he could just hope that the Lord had not noticed and had no way to notice.

It was a huge relief for him, therefore, when something seemed to have settled in the Lord's expression and he briskly said, "This is my _private_ chamber, and you are not to bring _anybody_ or _anything_ here. When I am away, you are going to be given another set of quarters where the servants are able to enter and look after you. You are free to come here _alone_ even then, but I shall not suffer _anything_ being taken away from this chamber save by my permission or in emergency, and you shall always keep this place _clean_ and _tidy_. Understood?"

The Lord's gaze bore into his soul with unnerving, solid intensity, he wondered if Uncle Vernon would not have been cowed by it. Still, that huge fat man's glares had built some kind of immunity to glares for Murghan, so he perhaps ought not to snigger at the picture of Dudley's 'beloved' father cowering behind the living-room's sofa and wetting himself.

He nodded sharply, as taught by Aunt Petunia and demanded by Uncle Vernon. Another lesson which had almost literally been beaten into him reared up its head as the Lord gave him a pointed look. "Yes, Sir," he said, innunciating each word with quiet clarity as asked – no, yelled – by Aunt Petunia.

He had guessed right. The Lord's gaze subsided to its normal level of alacrity and intensity – though not 'normal' as portrayed by all the grown-ups that Murghan had ever encountered in his life – and he proceeded with what seemed to be the next point, despite the fact that the storm brewing behind his eyes seemed to be escalating.

"_Tell_ if you have something to tell, and _ask_ if you have something to ask. I do not want what has just happened happens again in the future _just_ because you refused to tell or ask me anything, understood?"

"Yes, Sir." Another sharp nod.

"Be polite, but _do not_ cower like some mindless worm. I despise it, and wish _not_ to see it _everyday_ enacted by my own _ward_, understood?"

"Yes, Sir." And another sharp nod followed, but then Murghan faltered, uncertain and apprehensive. "Sir?" he timidly murmured, wincing when the Lord let out a low, threatening growl.

"What did I _just_ tell you?" The Lord's accent was getting prominent, he noticed: something exotic and almost Scottish but not; but now he had a problem, and could not spare any thought for what the Lord's first language might possibly be, and if he could learn it… What a pity. Older children had always been talking about all the language courses and lessons they had taken whether at their respective schools or in private tutorials, and he had always been intrigued with the idea of learning different languages…

He fidgeted again, inhaled a long, deep breath then exhaled it slowly and softly. Then, as the wet-pine scent of the Lord filled his nostrils down to his lungs, he forced his eyes to meet the Lord's once more, before he blurted out, mindful of the Lord's admonishment about his verbal language: "What's a 'ward', Sir?"

The contemplative stare returned, while the brewing storm was getting greater, larger, more noticeable, and Murghan began to get uneasy with is latest observation of the Lord's hidden mood. It was not quite a surprise then, as the Lord redirected their interrogation session.

"Do not agree before you know of what the agreement entails, Murghan."

"En-tails?" Murghan parroted bemusedly. "Like a tail? Doggy's tail?"

A sliver of amusement broke through the storm briefly. Murghan relaxed a little. The Lord was not _that_ angry then, or at least not yet.

"It means 'follows', lad. What I said is: Do not agree if you do not know to and for what you are agreeing. Many people will unfortunately seek to use you or take advantage of you—" the swirls of the storm intensified "–so you must _always_ be wary. Do not say 'Yes' before you know what you are expected."

"Yes, Sir," he grinned. An advice – he was getting a _real_ _advice_ like all those other children in the neighbourhood! The end of the world would have arrived before Aunt Petunia so much as _advised_ her perfect little Diddykins, but Murghan had deduced some time ago that the Dursleys were not good examples of how things ought to go; he just did not know – _had not_ known – _why_ they did not seem to quite fit with the majority of the neighbourhood, let alone compared to snapshots of family life on the telly.

Something mellowed the storm in the Lord's eyes a little, somehow. But nevertheless, his next words were just as crisp and intense as before.

"I want you clean and tidy whenever you are indoors, and I want you to wash your clothes and other accessories regularly after use. I trust you can do that much, given your age?"

"Yes, Sir." But a grin was threatening to break out despite all Murghan's might, as the image of big, flabby, pink Dudley squatting before a washtub and his sausage-like hands buried amidst the foam-invested waterlocked clothes flashed in his mind.

Amusement once more bladed through the storm, though just in a flash, before the Lord continued, "As I am closely in contact with you, I expect you to wash everything yourself, instead of giving it to the servants, as I do that also to my own affects. Understood?"

But Murghan did _not_ understand. Those confusing big words aside, he did not understand why the Lord would not just hand his dirty laundry to the people who worked for him. He could understand it for himself, but for the Lord? Those servants did work for the Lord as Murghan also did, right? So why?

"Why you, Sir?" he asked tentatively, following on the Lord's insistence to clarify things before agreeing. Here he also caught a flash of displeasure in the Lord's eyes on the word "you," but for everything in the world he could not begin to guess why, too.

"My own preferences, which you might or might not know later." Shorter answer, in a clipped tone that betrayed a wealth of emotions to Murghan. It also informed him that any more questions would not be tolerated, clarifying or not, so he simply nodded.

But the Lord did not wait for his verbal agreement.

"Tutors shall be provided for you, but I shall take most of your tutelage when I can spare my time for it. Otherwise you shall learn from others while still under my watch; but in _all_ possibilities, I _expect_ you to do your best."

"Yes, Sir." It was the easiest acquiescence till now! If "tutors" meant "teachers" and "tutelage" meant "lesson" or "schooling," that was. The Lord used too many big words!

Then, impossibly, the Lord's gaze turned even more intense, and the storm behind it reached _very_ close to the surface. In a quieter, deadlier tone he said, "You are my heir and my eldest. Forget how we met, and forget all taints from that meeting. You shall learn my language and the traditions of my people and perform them well, and you shall pass the knowledge to any other that may come after you, understood?"

Murghan shivered. The Lord's most solemn tone to date greatly disquieted him, and both the tone and the words made him feel as though he had been tasked with a huge, nearly-unbearable burden for the rest of his life. He could not comprehend everything the Lord had said, but he knew what the very last word meant: a command. So he acquiesced with a "Yes, Sir" and another sharp nod, and felt that he was fully trapped now. No need for those big, ugly chains; he had bound himself tight, stupid Murghan.

But was he truly foolish to simply cave in to the Lord's demands? The storm behind those odd eyes was dicipating slowly but surely, and the Lord was relaxing for the first time since he had hauled Murghan out of his box, and his expression even _softened_ a little. Was it not worth it, for someone who had been so kind to a freak?

Well, the rumination could wait for when they were not sitting face-to-face and staring at each other, Murghan decided. He was hungry and thirsty _again_ now, surprisingly, and tired too. Why was he suddenly so weak and fussy? Had he not survived much longer while living with the Dursleys without too much complaint from his belly and throat? Or was it the evil doing of the necklace round his neck? But _how_?

But magic was real, right? The Lord had been doing magic when he had taken care of Murghan… right? So perhaps the necklace took his magic to replenish its own for all that it had done for him? But that was alarming!

He fidgeted with the pendant resting on the spread of baby-blue silk covering the centre of his chest. Should he get rid of the necklace now? Surely the Lord did not intend to do harm to him? It was not his anyway; it was Harry's.

But the denial could not explain why his heart felt like being gripped by an icy fist and squeezed tight when the lord pried his fingers from the pendant and touched the metal plate himself, somehow making it shimmer into visibility. He was going to lose the necklace! The Lord would surely take it away, like the Dursleys with all items that had ever attracted Murghan's attention in the past. He could not – he would not – he –

Warmth suffused him, spreading from the pendant to all over him, like a cocoon, like it had done while the Lord had been carrying his box to wherever this was. Murghan could only gape and stare at the Lord, who contrarily seemed to be intent on the pendant still in his grip.

The pendant shook a little in the Lord's hand, but the warm cocoon did not falter one bit.

Then something very, very, very peculiar and unexpected happened: The Lord looked back up at him, with a greater, more dangerous storm of emotions starkly visible in his eyes and tight expression, and croaked out a question to him in the manner of someone hopeless and defenceless, "Do you really wish to be my son?"

_Son_? Had he heard it right? But he was a _something_ the Lord had bought, not a _son_! But the Lord had said…

Pain, hunger and desperation flitted past the Lord's expression, before his whole countenance clamped down into a wall of impassivity. He abruptly let go of the pendant and stood up then, skirting the desk and leaving Murghan sprawled on it, gaping stupidly. But before he completely left the desk, he addressed the stupefied three-year-old look-alike once more, in a soft, dead, final tone, "You are home, Murghan."

The invisible cocoon turned snugger and warmer round the said stupefied child, almost humming in delight. The forgotten metal pendant shifted a little within a glowing white nimbus that obscured it from view, before it revealed a somewhat different look to its surface which went totally unappreciated by the two living beings in the room. And far, far, far past the gap of space and time, in a room smaller and far odder, a ball-like metal devise with long thin metal hands on its underside glowed with the same white nimbus, with a few of its jutting tentacle-like hands pointing here and there and tangling in each other in a hopeless mess, before it completely settled as it had been minus the now hopelessly-tangled tentacles.

The first sent its charge into a contented, dreamless, if enforced slumber. The second was noticed with surprise and resignation by both parties once they looked upon it in their own times. But the last… Well, the owner of the devise was a busy man, and he would not be checking the queer devise and its brethren for a long time yet.

But one thing was certain, even to the child: Murghan had a home now, a _different_ home.


	6. The Truth

_Author's Notes: Firstly, thank you very much to all who have read, reviewed, and tracked this story, and special shout-outs to Allen Pitt, history, Meteorthunder3, and RestrainedFreedom for reviewing last chapter! Secondly, please beware of confusion on several parts of this particular chapter, as those parts deal with the memories of our two protagonists, and there will be a confusion of names and identities afterwards, perhaps even till the next chapter or more depending on my muse. And last but not at all the least: a forewarning for the latter half of this chapter: casual (and one graphic) violence done to a young child; and seriously, I nearly cried on too many parts there. But if you are not daunted…_

**The Slave Boy**

He is just a boy, a little nameless one at that. He is just a slave, a most unattractive one at that. But he has a big heart, an extraordinary one at that, and many other unseen weapons to boot. So the question is: Which will win over him, along the bitter path chosen for him by all too many? And when they all find out…

Chapter 6  
_The Truth_

Rating: Heavy T / Heavy PG-13  
Warnings: Past Child Abuse and Neglect, sensitive topics, violence  
Word Count: 3,920

Day 15-16 of Spring, Year 50  
_Bloodstone Refuge, Foothills of the Spine, Leona District_

Lying stretched out on the desk with a large, berly man looming over him felt too much like a lamb's slaughter to Murghan; but he could not escape it, and partly he did not wish to escape it. The hand that pushed aside his fringes was gentle, ginger even, and the other one that arranged his body and limbs was patient and no less gentle. He could not categorise them as tender per se; but since all his physical interactions so far had only been for bullying, punishment, and human-sale, this treatment was already heavenly. It also helped that he was still in the process of waking up and thus still quite lethargic.

He could not put the severe, far-reaching headache that centred on the scar on his forehead next in the category of "heavenly," though. In fact, waking up fully in an instant, he cried out from the shock and the pain of it, and could not stop tears from leaking from his tightly-squeezed eyes. Above him, faintly through his dampened hearing, he could hear feverish muttering in a familiar low-toned voice, but right now it only agitated him more instead of calming him down as it had before.

The voice got breathless and weak after a while, even as his headache spiked into a new level of agony.

And then, he was suddenly standing in a pitch-black space, or so he felt, with the senses that made up the Lord hovering unseen somewhere before him, bearing down upon another male of the same near-abstract identity that made Murghan recoil in horror and revulsion.

The other male, compared to even little Murghan, seemed quite diminished, as if a demented deity had chopped him into pieces and the pieces into pieces, and the _thing_ that Murghan now 'see' were only _one_ of the myriad pieces. And to top it all, this tiny piece of a person felt like _soaked_ in a tub of liquefied evil, if it were at all possible. Understandably, it seemed to be mortally afraid of the Lord's escence, but Murghan got no sympathy to that piece of abomination as it crept closer and closer to him in order to evade the Lord's grasp. He did not want to even be in the same space with that _thing_!

So he pushed, pushed, pushed, pushed and struggled, frantically trying to escape the queer pitch-black space and the other two escences.

And suddenly, he was alone. The reality only registered for a split second in his mind, before he lost all coherent thought until an indeterminate time later.

The first thing that registered in his slowly-returning awareness was that he was still lying on the desk, although somehow he had curled up into a ball when he had been unconscious. The second thing that attracted his attention was the sense that nobody seemed to be around. Where was the Lord? What had just happened? Had it all been real?

With an effort, he scrambled into a sitting position, stifling a groan when his muscles protested on having had to endure a hard surface in an awkward position for so long. Looking round, he saw that the windows had been opened and the curtains had been gathered to the sides, although no natural light penetrated into the room and no spring breeze stirred the air inside. The bed, rug, various tables, closet doors, and even his box were in the same position as before, and he could find the Lord at or near neither objects. A sense of abandonment sneakily wormed into his heart down to his belly, but he quashed it with all his might. It was not his business wherever the Lord was going and whatever the Lord was doing.

Easier said than done though.

He sat up straighter, and began to seek for a way down from the desktop. His head still felt like being pounded with a large, dull hammer while being rotated swiftly on a pottery wheel, so he dared not jump down directly from the desk to the hard, unforgiving stone floor beyond it. But the overstuffed armchair that filled the space behind the desk was not counted in his consideration also; _he_ would have killed him had he dared sit on such a comfy, new-looking chair, let alone _stand_ on it. But there was otherwise no other way, since the sides of the desk opened to the stone floor too.

He opted for the open floor beyond the desk in the end, not wanting to chance the Lord's wrath. Fortunately the desk was totally empty of anything, so he could just shimmy along to the appropriate edge of the desktop.

Just three more inches… His head lisped to the side, but he ignored it – two more, one…

A wall of solid dark green blocked his sight. He gasped, startled, and automatically looked up.

The Lord's bi-coloured gaze was pointedly directed at him.

Murghan blanched.

He opened his mouth, about to apologise, about to blurt out an excuse, but the Lord was faster. With a strong-but-not-rough push from a pair of large hands, he toppled back flat onto the desktop, breathless and wide-eyed.

He was given no chance to regain his equilibrium. As soon as his limbs had been arranged to the Lord's mysterious specifications – which, he had to admit it even though grudgingly, was rather comfortable – his world blacked out, and the surreal landscape of indistinct whirling colours replaced it. And then, as he began to settle down, the new reality solidified into quick, poinient, sharply-portrayed snapshots of his existence, starting from the life that he had never even _imagined_ he had had: the fifteen months before he had been dumped on the doorstep of Privet Drive Number Four.

His mother. His father.

Green eyes _the same_ as his, lustrous dark-red hair. Bespectacled hazel eyes, messy black-hair _the same_ as his.

Warm laughter, playful teasing, grumpy bantering, fun games, comfy cuddles—

All love for _him_.

Lily: Lils sometimes, or Lily-flower, or Lilypet when her jokester husband was feeling particularly cheeky, and Mummy for the demanding little one: chipper-voiced, high-pitched when angry and surprisingly like Aunt Petunia, fond of happy songs and dramatised lullabies: fresh orange-ish, rose-ish scent, slim-but-secure arms, warm, squishy, gently-enveloping body…

Daddy James – Jamie, Prongs, jamesy – was not often home, and the little one hated it when Daddy was garbed in dark red, for it always ment that Daddy would be away for a long time, and sometimes returned hurt even if the outing had been short. "Auror jobs," Mummy had named the outings, complaining even as she tended Daddy, with the little one hanging round her neck from the back like a limpet or a little monkey. But when Daddy was home, he always had time for the little one, being silly and fun and childish all the time, with his not-so-deep voice and strong arms and hard-packed body and tickling strong fingers and wet earth's scent…

There were _others_, and they _loved_ the little one.

No, no, they loved _Harry_, Harry _James Potter_, and Harry James Potter was _him_.

It was night already. Something seemed to have been weighting down Mummy and Daddy, but they still played colourful floating bubbles with the little one – no, _Harry_ – and the three of them enjoyed it. But then Daddy got freaked out and Harry was snatched away from the rug by Mummy and Daddy was yelling at Mummy to go save herself and Harry and that made Harry quite upset—

Mummy begged for that _thing_ to spare Harry, pleaded for it to take her life instead, while Harry was standing in the crib behind her sobbing for Daddy-who-was-no-longer-there.

Rumbling noise. Green light. Mummy fell, as if a piece of paper blown by the wind.

Harry shrieked, called for Mummy-who-was-no-longer-there, but even then he knew that it was futile. So _alone_, so afraid, so confused, so _angry_, angry at the _thing_ who had hurt Mummy and Daddy, who had taken Mummy and Daddy from Harry and left him so, so alone.

"Avada Kedavra," the thing hissed, with a strange smirk on its lipless mouth decorated with sharpened teeth. The rumbling noise, the green light—

Burning on his forehead, on the _scar_.

Harry howled. The thing shrieked.

Explosion all round him. The thing burnt away. Harry collapsed just like Mummy, howling for Mummy and Daddy.

_Huge_ hands, animal scents, warm thick jacket, tickling face-hair, booming deep voice, gentle eyes, tender handling.

"I'm his godfather, Hagrid. Give him to me?" Uncle Paddy! Desperate, tearful, not like the fun-loving, rich-voiced uncle he had always known. But "Hagrid" did not let him go.

Cold, very cold. Tough floor – but Mummy had never allowed him to sit on bare floor, let alone _lie down_ on it! – and sounds of nature all round him, before a woman shrieked from far above him, startling him wide awake.

The house was so _noisy_, and not a good noise at that.

Cold, dark, not big, too-thin pee-smelling mattress, locked from outside, lots of ticklish spiders that Mummy had not liked, not-good smell all round.

Blond-haired, bigger boy. Pinched, kicked, yelled at, thrown at, thwacked, punched.

Mocked, forgotten, ignored, hated.

Hungry, set as unworthy, thirsty, afraid, could not go out of the little wooden room.

Too-quick changes, passing before he could be immersed too deeply in each experience.

The cave. The insectile Aliens. The courtyard. The chained people. The human-sellers. The Lord…

Blackness engulfed him once more, and he succumbed to it willingly, fleeing from _everything_, denying, horrified, yearning, knowing of the futility of it.

But even unconscious, he could tell that his whole body was shifting right from the bones, that he was _claimed_ by somebody, that his own self rose up, trying to battle the intrusion in vain, confused and afraid of the invasion itself. What was happening?

He woke up starving, in pain, and still laid out on the desktop, layered in his own sweat. Darkness impinged on the edges of his vision once more after just a few inhales of breath and, realising that nobody else was in the chamber with him, he succumbed to it once more, willingly this time.

He did not know how long he had been unconscious. But he felt that he was still trapped in his own mindscape when he felt himself being _carried_ by a now-familiar somebody: tucked in a pair of strong arms as though a baby, with an ear pressed to a gently-moving chest and listening to the sounds of heartbeats and breathing, feeling the striding motions without being impacted by any jarring in the end of each movement.

It was… comfortable, though odd in its novelty; he had no other word for it. He began to like it too, very much, and wished that it would never end.

But end it did, some time afterwards, with some shifting as though his holder were preparing something or for something in front. And then he was shifted away from the cozy warmth of his holder, and laid in… something soft and no less cozy, but less warm. Something else – something big and furry and warm and a little twitchy – was slipped into his arms then, before he and the thing were wrapped snugly together in a blanket. His new bed started to rock back and forth in a gentle, wide arc not long after, lulling him further, and he fell back into sleep without any effort, despite the weak sunlight shining onto his face.

At first, he thought that the long, drawn, sad flute notes that he was hearing also belonged to his dreamscape. But then he became aware that his eyes were closed, that something was tickling his nose and the tips of his ears, and that sunlight was making him feel a little too warm. He was also getting aware of the sounds of nature that had been absent before in his dreams, and that somebody had changed his garb to something he imagined would fit him outdoors more than the silken pair he had worn before.

Before… before _that_.

His eyes flew wide open. Disorientation gripped him once more, terrorising him within his own self, as the experience replayed itself unstoppably in all its traumatising glory. The sun continued to beam gently down at him, what felt and partially looked like a tree-swing kept its lulling rhythm underneath him, and the ticklers which turned out to be the fuzzy tips of a pair of white rabbit ears danced teasingly all over his face with faithful tenacity, but everything now lost their meaning and charm. His world consisted of only undeniable truths of his life

He was _indeed_ Harry of the House of Potter. But no, he was now Murghan the sold child. But had the Lord not told him not to remind himself of having been sold again? But was it what the Lord had really meant with those big words and complicated thoughts? But…

One of the rabbit's ears flicked extra diligently into his nostrils. He could not help the giggle that bubbled up his throat, as he instinctively ducked away from the offending fuzz. He realised then that he had been lain together with the big bunny under a thick blanket in a snugly-padded basket, which in turn had somehow been stuck onto the seat of the tree-swing.

And somebody was watching him closely…

Green eyes met black and blue.

His vision zoned in once more, blocking out the sunlight and greenery all round him. Snapshots of memories played like a vivid, macabre kaleidoscope before his eyes again; but this time he instinctively, inexplicably knew that they were not of his own life, not of his former and current identities.

Cold, cold, _very_ cold and very dark. Hungry, naked, so _cold_, so alone, so thirsty. Throat raw from screaming. Body weak from the cold and the hunger and the thirst and the loneliness. Hard surface, cold surface, dirty surface, so dark…

Careful arms, loving arms, gentle arms, warm arms, comforting scent, comforting voices, soft voices, warm surface, soft surface. No longer naked, no longer hungry, no longer thirsty, no longer alone, always cradled in a pair of arms, always rocked back and forth whenever discomfort or unease visited. Warm green eyes, solemn black eyes. Rich-brown hair, pitch-black hair. Scaled silver nose, scaled green nose, low rumbling purr. Wind on hair, the surface rocking up and down and up and down and up and down…

People trying to touch him physically, mentally, magically. Shying away. They were _not_ permited! They were strangers, not safe, not comfortable; disturbing his senses, disturbing his private bubble, disturbing his little world. Not all of them were genuine in their affection anyway, he could 'see' it, could feel it. His beloved protectors realised it at nearly the same time so it did not bother him over-much anymore; but still! But the one with jaded blue-green eyes and fire-like wavy hair was fine enough, though he knew the man resented his place in his female protector's arms a little. He loved pine-scent, and the man gave him a tiny pine tree to be his companion, so it made it all right for him too. Plus the man was gentle and became another of his protectors and respected his private bubble so he liked the man more.

Né'a, Ré'a: mother, father. No longer alone, not again, forever they said. Had another set of parents, but did not wish to be even in their presence in any stretch of time; they had abandoned him! But Né'a and Ré'a had never, and they had never forced him to do anything too, so he abandoned the notion that he had another set of parents and contented himself basking in the arms of _this_ set of parents. They were baffled, he knew; he had not even learnt to speak yet although he was already two years old, they said. But what use was speaking when one could achieve things by gestures and small sounds? Noises hurt his ears and discomfited him and disorientated him and he hated them, and words were jibberish noises to him, totally unpleasant and unnecessary. His parents loved it when he smiled or giggled anyway, and quickly forgot that he _would not_ speak, and he got extra cuddles for that too!

But Ré'a was not always fun – in his own way – and cuddly. Ré'a could be strict and harsh, especially if he was being perceived as weak. He learnt to cry silently just after the age of two, to avoid attracting Ré'a's ire, when children he was meant to play with instead hurl toys at him and played with themselves, and their parents approved of their action. Né'a was not always attentive to his needs and wants too, fretting about this and that while just absently cradling him; and along the whiles, he slowly learnt to take care of himself.

Could not walk though. Could not even stand. His parents were worried. Friends of his parents said that it was not a good news, so they fretted to each other, perhaps thinking that he could not understand them because he 'could not' talk; three-year-olds ought to be stampeding hellions, not creepy-crawlies. Something wrong with the legs: different from others, twisted inward, too weak, too shuddery, too twitchy. But could still crawl, could still climb with arms, could still reach out and grab things. Still carried everywhere, still loved, still warm, still sated, still comforted, so it was all right for him. But they were distressed, defensive, hurt by all the suspicions and mockeries aimed at him. They were trying so much, so hard, so faithfully to improve his legs. Healers from everywhere and every race came and poked at him; he always sent them away with everything in his disposal, and in time his parents learnt to just accept him as he was. Only then did he try to stand, to walk, to run, _only_ to please them.

But then they asked him to play outside, and did it more and more often. He could feel the wards humming and tasting and feeling with the escences of his parents protecting him all the while, but they did not stop him from taking a tumble every time somebody 'accidentally' tripped him or shoved him into garbage heaps, and the action of pelting stones at him still had a _very_ clear meaning despite the fact that those projectiles stopped _just_ before connecting fully with his skin. They did not protect him from the fearful, disgusted, contemptuous stares and whispers directed at him too, or the rough, grubby, strong, adult hands that stripped him of any and all valuables till he had to stumble home bootless and nearly naked. His parents naively believed that he and his nonexistent friends were just a little bit rough with each other, as little boys often were, and that he had traded his clothes and shoes for treats from passing vendors. They just scolded him lightly and reclothed him in new garments and shoes and wards and dismissed the evidence out of their minds. And then, the next day or the day after or the week after, they sent him out _again_.

He understood the suspicions and mockeries at last, when he was four and Uncle Tor happened to come by after so long of physical absence. Uncle Tor believed in blunt, direct truths and he liked it, aside from those ticklish firetongue strands and those beautiful, beautiful big blue-green eyes. They accused him to be a changeling; Uncle Tor said that a changeling was a monster disguised as a human child. They claimed that they were totally right that he was a changeling; Uncle Tor listed that he did have different eyes both on colour and shape, unnaturally pointed ears, unnaturally slim body, twisted legs, over-silent personality, over-quiet tendencies, unnerving gaze that was too knowing and too intent, though Uncle Tor did assure him that one of his maternal ancestors must have been an elf to have contributed to his general appearance. They called him evil taint; Uncle Tor confirmed that his birth-mother had indeed named him Morzan, which meant "unclean smudge" in one of the old tongues of the humans that Né'a and Ré'a sometimes used. Né'a and Ré'a were _mad_ at Uncle Tor for telling and explaining all the truths to him though, and they banished Uncle Tor from his presence till he went into his worst temper tantrum yet to get his uncle back. The overlong, noisy, exhausting act was worth it, in his opinion. Now he knew why his parents looked and felt so hurt every time the taunts were hurled at him, why sometimes they were tense to one another, and why at times the tension escalated into shouting matches.

But _just_ before he turned five, the latest shouting match somehow turned into something _much_ more physical. Weeping silently while cowering on a far corner, he was nearly hit by a flying orb of energy. Afterwards, shrieking in fear for him and mad at Ré'a, Né'a threw him out the front door. But this time, he was not warded and attired only in sleepware and nothing else. And this time, somebody _nearly_ killed him, snapping his neck under a large, heavy, filthy boot, and he instinctively retaliated by throwing the man _hard_ against a stone wall using his innate power. He was accused of murdering the man by all spectators, and thrown into the bonfire meant for the midwinter celebration that night. It was _too bright_ and to noisy, and he was _burning_ and it all _hurt_, hurt so much, so he shrieked, but the ashes burnt him just as much, and his own flesh was roasting, peeling off… Shouting in what he recognised as an elven voice: thunderous, _furious_ – no, _more_ than furious – more furious than the hurtful tongues of flame that were greedily eating him up; and then cool, cool air was wrapping him up and lifting him out of the fire, and he was levitated along the suddenly-silent-and-empty roads in a very, very swift pace into… somewhere. When he woke up again, his skin was unblemished once more and he was laid in a bed by a tall, unconscious elf, guarded by another tall, silent, worried elf that seemed to accuse him by stare alone of making the other elf fall unconscious. And then the elf did speak, tell him curtly, "Solion saved you from the fire and brought you here. You were dying. I told him so, but he persisted to try to heal you. He and his dragon partner fell unconscious from the cost of the spells; I and my own partner nearly followed them, and it was already two days ago." It made him feel _horrible_; but he did gain a new, loving friend in Solion the elven Dragon Rider, despite Rider Devonid's cold, taciturn attitude towards him, and he cherished the odd friendship outside of the notice of his parents.

Five. He was five: Orri – no, Harry – no, Murghan – no, no, not Morzan – Orúlékh, he was five, Orri was five, like Harry – no, no, Murghan – and he was not alone. Not really a child, not yet a grown-up, too aware of the hateful world, but loving still, a child still, needing things still, knowing _much_ of the price for the prize of _a little bit_ of comfort.

The black-and-blue eyes were wet, empty. The green eyes were wet, empty. But they were silent, very silent, not a peep heard.


End file.
